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THE GOLDEN ROAD 



BOOKS BY LILIAN WHITING 



The World Beautiful. First, Second and Third Series 

The World Beautiful in Books 

The Life Radiant 

The Outlook Beautiful 

Kate Field: A Record 

Life and Poetry of Mrs. Browning 

From Dream to Vision of Life 

After Her Death: The Story of a Summer 

The Joy that No Man Taketh from You 

From Dreamland Sent 

The Spiritual Significance 

Life Transfigured 

The Adventure Beautiful 

Boston Days 

Paris the Beautiful 

The Land of Enchantment 

Italy, The Magic Land 

The Florence of Landor 

Louise Chandler Moulton, Poet and Friend 

The Brownings: Their Life and Art 

Athens, The Violet-Crowned 

The Lure of London 

The Golden Road 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 



BY 

LILIAN WHITING 



Illustrated from Photographs 



' Of writing many books there is no end ; 
And I, who have written much in prose and verse 
For others' uses, will write now for mine." — Aurora Leigh 



N ON-REFER T 




cqWVAP-CHSj 



BOSTON! 
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 

1918 









Copyright, 1918, 
By Little, Brown, and Company. 



All rights reserved 



NOV -4 1918 



TYPOGRAPHY BY THE PLIMPTON PRESS, NORWOOD, MASS., U.S.A. 
PRESSWORK BY S. J. PAHKEULL & CO., BOSTON, MASS., U.S.A. 



• 3 ' 



©CLA506438 



INSCRIBED 

TO THE FRIENDS IN THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN 

WHO MAKE LIFE FOR ME 

A GOLDEN ROAD 

WINDING ON THROUGH 

THE WORLD BEAUTIFUL 

Lilian Whiting 



" World of the Real ! world of the twain in one ! 
World of the Soul — born of the Real alone ! '* 



PREFACE 

"Years prophetical! the space ahead as I walk, as I 

vainly try to pierce it; 
Unborn deeds, things soon to be, project their shapes 

around me; 
The Unperformed, more gigantic than ever, advance, 

advance upon me." 

A BOOK so rambling in character as the present 
volume needs, perhaps, explanation or apology, 
or both. "The Golden Road" is not designed as 
travel, or biography, or autobiography, but a "blend," 
as the food conservers say. No one liveth to himself 
alone, and our individual lives, I take it, derive much 
of their possible significance, and certainly a very 
large part of their happiness, from the lives they 
encounter on the march; from the noble and the great 
of soul whom they look to in reverent appreciation, 
from the friends whom they hold in unforgetting de- 
votion. The book is as rambling as life itself, touching 
on points only, here and there; for life is a series of 
sequences, and events apparently unrelated at the 
time often appear, in any retrospective glance, as fitting 
themselves into a mosaic structure. For life itself, 
just the business of daily living, has always seemed to 
me the finest of the fine arts, in that it is the quality 
of this daily experience that determines its trend and 
its progress. As Doctor Holmes well said, — "It 
matters less where we stand than in what direction we 

[vii] 



PREFACE 

are moving." The business of living is like climbing 
a mountain; some are nearer the summit; some have 
only just entered on the journey; but each will reach 
the summit, sooner or later, if he hold true to the 
upward way. It is not, necessarily, success in life to 
have achieved power and fame, or to have made 
millions of dollars. It is success to keep measurable 
faith with one's ideals. 

The spiritual development of man is the raison 
d'etre for being on earth at all, and much that may 
be not undesirable is yet negligible in comparison 
with the opportunities for usefulness, with the privi- 
leges of lovely companionships, and the blessed con- 
sciousness of the divine leading. "It does not require 
a great man to do great things," said Bishop Brooks, 
"only a consecrated man." Perhaps no word of 
counsel could be more signally encouraging, for it 
suggests that the sincere desire to enter into the 
service of the Blessed Order, "not only with our lips, 
but in our lives," shall find its constantly enlarging 
opportunities to cooperate, however humbly, with 
the divine purposes. Poetry and Religion are living 
fountains from which to draw. 

Life is a spiritual drama. It is the adventure of 
the spirit into changing conditions with constantly 
enlarging horizons, under whose luminous skies voice 
and vision beckon us on, even to that glory which shall 
yet be revealed. For the things which are seen are 
temporal; but the things which are not seen are 
Eternal! 

L. W. 

The Brunswick 
Boston, June, 1918 

[ viii ] 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB PAGE 

Preface vii 

I. Voice and Vision 1 

II. Literary Life in Boston 25 

III. Fin de Siecle 66 

IV. Sailing Enchanted Seas 87 

V. Italian Life and Experiences .... 104 

VI. Social Seasons in Rome 131 

VII. Days in Athens and Algiers .... 156 

VIII. Life and Art in Paris 182 

IX. Friends and Days in London .... 202 

X. The Friendships of William Angus Knight 222 

XI. The Genius of Perctval Lowell . . . 248 

XII. A Summer Tour through Canada . . . 256 

XIII. The Moving Finger 273 

Index 303 



LIST OF PLATES 

Portrait of the Author Frontispiece ' 

John Hemming Fry Facing page 6 v ' 

Mary Ashton (Rice) Livermore 48* 

Robert Browning, from a photograph taken after his 

death 102 

Pasquale Villari, LL.D., D.C.L 108' 

Thomas Ball 114* 

Robert Barrett Browning 120 

Donna Roma Lister 126 

"The Soul between Doubt and Faith" 134 

"Death Leading the Youth to Eternal Life" . . . 168 

Mosque of Sidi Abderrahman, Algiers 172 " 

The Rt. Rev. Charles John Ellicott, Lord Bishop of 

Gloucester, and Mrs. Ellicott 208 

Elise Emmons 220 

William Angus Knight, D.D., LL.D., D.C.L. ... 224 

Percival Lowell, LL.D., D.Sc 248 

Mount Edith Cavell, Jasper Park, Alberta, Canada 268 ' 



"Strong and content I travel the open road. 

"You road I enter and look around! I believe you are 
not all that is here; 
I believe much unseen is also here. 

"The earth expanding right and left hand, 
The picture alive, every part in the best light, 
All seems beautiful to me; 

I can repeat over to men and women, You have done 
much good to me. 

I think heroic deeds were all conceived in the open air, 

and all great poems also; 
The efflux of the soul is happiness — here is happiness; 

"Allons! after the Great Companions! and to belong to 
them! 
They, too, are on the road! they are the swift and 
majestic men; they are the greatest women!" 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

i 

VOICE AND VISION 

"But heard are the voices, 
Heard are the Sages, 
The World and the Ages; 
* Choose well; your choice is 
Brief and yet endless.' " 

FROM a windowed alcove in the Mercantile Li- 
brary in St. Louis, a reader with a detached 
mind could easily keep an eye on an exquisite piece 
of sculpture, a recumbent statue of Beatrice Cenci, 
by America's greatest woman sculptor, Harriet Hos- 
mer, which was a gift to the library from a man who 
was at that time easily the first citizen of St. Louis 
and who has many claims to honor. This man was 
Wayman Crow, the founder and, during the remainder 
of his life, the Chancellor of Washington University, 
one of the great benefactors of the Mercantile Library; 
a man whose personal influence in his city was in- 
calculably noble, for his vision was clear, his intel- 
lectual outlook was wide, and his sympathies were 
infinite with all that made for excellence. It was 
Mr. Crow who had, indeed, made Harriet Hosmer's art 
life possible to her. The story is one that strikingly 
reveals the linked sequences of life. 

[i] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

Mr. Crow's eldest daughter, Cornelia (now Mrs. 
Lucien Carr), was sent to Mrs. Sedgwick's then 
famous school for girls in the Berkshires of Massa- 
chusetts, where she formed a close friendship with her 
classmate, Harriet Hosmer, a native of Watertown, 
near Boston. In a summer vacation Miss Crow in- 
vited her friend for a visit, in her St. Louis home, 
where her father, a connoisseur and a patron of 
Art, recognized Miss Hosmer's genius. Somewhere 
about that period Charlotte Cushman, the greatest 
tragedienne that our country has ever produced, 
was playing an engagement in St. Louis. She came, 
of course, to know the Crows, who were prominent 
socially, and the great artist took a special fancy to 
the second daughter, Miss Emma Crow, who gave to 
her the impassioned devotion of enthusiastic youth. 
Miss Cushman, who knew Rome, inspired Harriet 
Hosmer with an intense longing to go to the Eternal 
City for requisite study, and Mr. Crow was the gen- 
erous friend who made it financially possible for 
her to do so. Still later, Romance took a hand 
in all these combinations, and Miss Emma Crow 
became the wife of Edwin Cushman, a nephew 
of Charlotte Cushman, and at that time a mem- 
ber of the corps diplomatique, accredited to Italy. 
For more than forty years Mr. and Mrs. Cushman 
made their home in Rome, during those years of the 
picturesque Rome of the Popes when the Eternal 
City was resplendent in local color; that Rome of 
sunny winters, of gay excursions, the ardent center of 
artist life. 

For one library reader who habitually ensconced 
[2] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

herself near this statue of Miss Hosmer's, with a con- 
sciousness of its fascinating charm, there was also a 
detached eye to follow the book in hand — Shelley's 
tragedy of "The Cenci." It was a fitting volume to 
companion that subtle spell of the artist's embodi- 
ment of the tragic-stricken heroine. The recumbent 
figure is of purest Carrara marble, portraying Beatrice 
Cenci as she slept in her cell the night before her exe- 
cution, overcome with sorrow and terror. The face 
is turned a little to the right, the head pillowed on one 
slender hand, while the other falls at her side in the 
abandonment of despair, the fingers still clasping her 
rosary. The artist's magic carried the gazer back 
into the very heart of medieval Rome; and in the 
not very remote future, the reader who dreamily 
studied this pathetic creation was herself to visit 
Castel San Angelo and even stand in the very cell 
in which Beatrice had been imprisoned. Was Des- 
tiny, veiled and shrouded, hovering in the shadowy 
spaces of that library alcove with her leaves folded and 
making no sign? What can early youth divine of the 
forces that watch and wait far out in an undiscerned 
future? But Destiny then, at all events, lingered in 
the seclusion of the wings, for the hour had not yet 
struck for her to advance into the limelight, unfolding 
that dramatis personae whose invisible scroll is traced 
for every life, safely folded in her hands. 

The library was very still on that golden May 
afternoon in the closing decade of 1870-1880; here 
and there a soft rustle of leaves was heard, as some 
one turned the pages of a book, but for the most part 
the sunshine and the shadows and the statue had it 

[3] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

all to themselves. Yet a library is always haunted 
by Voices, — the voices of the Immortals; always is 
it illuminated by Visions. Do the great dead gather 
there to listen? Are they still conscious of the glow- 
ing pages they have penned and of their power to 
create new possibilities in life for their readers and 
devotees? Are the eclaireurs always flitting about, 
potent if yet unseen? 

Well, life, conscious life, must begin somewhere, 
and a library is as good a place as any other. We 
are all aware of some crisis hour in youth that pre- 
figures itself as a dividing point between all the past 
and all the future. Sometime and somewhere the 
Angel of the Annunciation always appears. Those 
are wise words that counsel "Keep true to the dream 
of thy youth." In later perspective we come to real- 
ize that this is really the all-important thing; and 
that much gain or getting, much loss or deprivation, 
matter comparatively little beside keeping faith with 
one's ideals. 

"What keeps a spirit wholly true 
To that ideal which he bears?" 

Is it some viewless and untraced law of spiritual 
magnetism, unmapped but inescapable as is the law 
of gravitation? 

Yes, a library is ■ perhaps as good a place as any 
other for the chrism to fall of the consecration and 
the dream. There are great spirits near, — 

"Spirits with whom the stars connive 
To work their will." 

[4] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

In Matthew Arnold's monograph on Emerson he 
speaks of the voices that were in the air in his under- 
graduate days in Oxford and that still haunt his 
memory. "Happy the man who in the susceptible 
season of youth hears such voices! They are a pos- 
session to him forever." These influences to which 
early youth is as impressionable as is clay in the hands 
of the sculptor serve as the formative material out 
of which all subsequent life selects and combines in 
ever changing forms. For it is the vision no eye 
hath seen; it is the voice no ear hath heard, that 
become the determining and the controlling factors 
of life. 

The fascinating old French city of St. Louis was 
less cosmopolitan in those years than now; its aris- 
tocratic quarters still numbered French families of 
distinction who lived by the ancien rSgime, the ladies 
of whom would never dream of taking the air in a 
less exclusive manner than behind the closed windows 
of their own carriages. These grandes dames of rose- 
water and rose-leaves, securely hedged about from any 
contact with an up-to-date (and, to them, degenerate) 
world, included women of the finest, even if narrow 
culture; they were refined, accomplished, polished to 
their finger tips; they were of a generation just van- 
ishing. There were French Catholic churches, with 
the same beautiful rites that have always been in 
evidence in the old Faubourg Saint-Germain of Paris, 
and their social and religious atmosphere was distinc- 
tively French. 

But other voices also called in St. Louis, more 
than in any other city of the great Middle West, 

[5] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

perhaps more than in any city in the country save 
Boston. St. Louis had a notable group of idealists 
whose personal influence, directly or indirectly, was 
as ineffaceable on many of the students of Washington 
University as it was exalted and fine. Many years 
before this there had been founded in St. Louis, by 
Doctor William Torrey Harris, a Philosophical Club, 
which to this day remains unsurpassed among all the 
literary and philosophic organizations of the country. 
Its youngest member, Denton Jacques Snider, has be- 
come its historian. Doctor Snider is also the author 
of a philosophic series that has attracted the attention 
and inspired the enthusiasm of many savants of Eu- 
rope: and the stately, splendid St. Louis of to-day owes 
much to that remarkable group of idealists who were, 
by some law of spiritual magnetism, drawn together 
in strong bonds during that period. Doctor Snider 
is still a resident of St. Louis. Nearly all the other 
members of the group have passed from earth. 
Hegel was their tutelary divinity, and Doctor Harris 
his interpreter. In the shadowy background of this 
club loomed up an inscrutable personality, Henry C. 
Brockmeyer, almost as traditional as the gods on 
Olympus. Of the leading members at this time there 
were Thomas Davidson, afterward distinguished as 
an interpreter of Dante; Susan Elizabeth Blow, phil- 
anthropic educator, scholar, and a woman of singularly 
vigorous intellectual power, and Anna C. Brackett, a 
genius in pedagogy, and at this time the principal 
of a high school. Clustered around this club, prob- 
ably as occasional guests and sympathetic followers 
rather than as actual members, were a very delightful 

[6] 




JOHN HEMMING FRY 
From a photograph 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

group of young artists and artistic folk: Halsey C. 
Ives, later the Director of the St. Louis Museum 
of Fine Arts; Carl Gutherz, with his Raphael face, 
whose name is inseparably linked with his notable 
work in the mural paintings of the Library of Con- 
gress in Washington; Louis James Block, poet, musi- 
cian and musical critic; and John Hemming Fry, who 
is recognized as a distinguished painter of purely 
classical beauty. Even then, in his early youth, Mr. 
Fry sought for these serene ideals of truth. He was in 
intuitive and inborn response to the great heritage 
of Greek culture. Mr. Fry, whose noted studios in 
New York now seem the very haunt of the classic 
spirit; whose ideal creations immortalize myth and 
legend that have suggested them; the artist of whom 
it is not saying too much to note that he is reviving 
noble and classic standards and thus contributing to 
the national elevation of Art, even in those youthful 
days gave evidence of very unusual gifts. 

All these, and other spirits that might be summoned 
from the vasty deep, were interested in Kant and 
Hegel — not so much because they had developed 
any especial devotion to those philosophers, as because 
of their devotion to their great interpreter, Doctor 
Harris, who had given nine years to the study of the 
famous "Critique," and who was easily accredited 
as the greatest Hegelian of his time. The Journal 
of Speculative Philosophy, founded and edited by 
Doctor Harris, served to focus the interest of this co- 
terie and the contingent followers. The object of this 
Journal was to provide a channel for philosophic 
and abstruse discussion whose trend did not appeal 

[7] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

to the literary hospitalities of the current periodicals. 
The initial number had appeared in 1867, and it con- 
tinued until 1895. Its advent was precipitated by 
an amusing circumstance, humorously narrated by 
Professor Snider: 

Harris, the strenuous secretary and ambitious stu- 
dent of Hegel, had his own personal scheme for the 
Philosophical Society, and that was to make it the 
means for working up his Journal, which he was already 
planning in 1866, or before, as he always had a jour- 
nalistic strain in his mental constitution. I recall the 
pivotal turn, or psychologic moment, when he started 
on the war-path. An article of his upon Herbert 
Spencer, of whom he had a high opinion, had been 
rejected by the North American Review, whose editor, 
Charles Eliot Norton, wrote to him a disparaging 
letter, declaring the article to be "unfathomable, un- 
readable, and especially unliterary." To a group of 
us assembled in Brockmeyer's office Harris read this 
letter, with sarcastic comments that made us all laugh; 
then he jumped up, exclaiming, " Now I am going to 
start a journal myself." 

Doctor Harris's lectures before Washington Univer- 
sity on philosophical themes, on the "Fates" of 
Michelangelo, on the "Transfiguration" of Raphael, 
or on the second part of Goethe's "Faust" were, 
in those days, about the only approach to art open to 
the students, and the very limitation of privilege 
and opportunity not infrequently quickens the ardor 
of appreciation. 

St. Louis had little to offer then in the resources of 
art. The devotees who hovered about the little 
group of idealists, and eagerly listened to the university 

[8] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

lectures of Doctor Harris, who haunted the Saturday 
morning talks of Miss Susan Blow, who were as a 
cloud of witnesses at any rudimentary art exhibition 
as arranged by Professor Ives, and whose special 
Sunday privilege it was to listen to the discourses of 
the Reverend Doctor Robert A. Holland, made up in 
zest what they lacked in number. There was a "Paint 
and Clay Club," and at one time the men of canvas 
and clay took Mr. Longfellow's poem, "The Golden 
Legend," as a theme to illustrate. Later all these 
sketches were sent as a gift to the poet: and the least 
important of the camp-followers of the club, so to speak, 
was commissioned to write to Mr. Longfellow inquiring 
as to the origin of this remarkable poem. The poet, 
with his characteristic courtesy, replied as follows: 

Cambridge, Nov. 25, 1878. 
Dear Miss Whiting: 

" The Golden Legend " is founded upon a German story 
of the Middle Ages, written by Hartmann von der Aue. 

You will find it in Mailath's "Auserlesene alt- 
deutsche Gedichte," published in Stuttgart: and Tu- 
bingen in 1809. Perhaps some German friend of yours 
in St. Louis may have a copy of this work. 

The old German poem is entitled "Der arme 
Heinrich." 

Wishing you joy and success in your illustrations, I am, 

Yours very truly 

Henry W. Longfellow 

Doctor Harris's Journal of Speculative Philosophy 
was the oracle of this youthful group. The more 
incomprehensible it was to us, the more intense was 
our devotion. Miss Blow wrote on "Immortality"; 

[9] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

Mr. Snider served up the "Iliad"; Miss Elizabeth 
Peabody contributed a cryptic series of papers on 
"Primeval Man" which, as no one understood them, 
were read with awe and reverence, and she thrilled 
her readers with the statement that when she read 
Bunsen's "Antiquarian Researches" she "confirmed 
them" with her own "astronomical, philological, 
and physiological proofs," — an assertion that de- 
lighted the learned supporters of Speculative Philos- 
ophy as revealing the abstruse erudition of the Boston 
woman. It was a type of the feminine species held 
in the highest regard, a regard that broke all mathe- 
matical laws by increasing with the square of the 
distance. These incantations from Miss Peabody 
filled countless pages of countless numbers of the 
Journal, and into its unfathomed abyss many of the 
"best sellers" of the present might disappear and be 
forever lost. Another follower of the gods offered up 
the "Idiopsychological Ethic" (whatever that might 
be) of Martineau, while a valiant spirit tackled the 
"Spatial Quale." No contributor received, or dreamed 
of receiving, any compensation for these learned labors, 
and while copies of the Journal were to be bought with 
a price (seventy-five cents a number), its editor evi- 
dently preferred giving them away. With even appar- 
ently greater pleasure Doctor Harris presented entire 
yearly subscriptions to any one who seemed to be in- 
terested but who did not abound in the current coin 
of the realm. The subscriber who paid in this latter 
commodity was tolerated; but he who rewarded the 
editorial group with something of sympathetic ardor 
was ecstatically welcomed. As for money, — any one 

[10] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

could pay money who happened to possess a bank 
account; that was a mere detail; but intelligent 
appreciation was quite another matter, and its price 
was above rubies. As for this Arcady in which this 
group of Idealists lived, — 

"No gold could buy you entrance there, 
But beggared love could go all bare." 

They were the folk "born and nourished in miracles," 
who were only surprised when the miracles did not 
happen. That they should happen was, to the group, 
the natural expectation and normal fulfillment of 
things. They held the cheerful (if not remunerative) 
faith of the spirit's right of way. The poorest indi- 
vidual was enthroned in this outpouring of mingled 
erudition of the severest order, and the sweet, simple 
friendliness of the diviner order. To Doctor Harris 
and his contributors it was the truth of philosophy, 
the reality of human helpfulness, that stood for the 
traffic of life. The clientele extended itself far afield, 
and beside Miss Peabody in Boston there came into 
the charmed circle of the writers the poet, John Albee; 
that versatile and unclassifiable author and journalist, 
Frank Benjamin Sanborn, with one or two other New 
Englanders in temperamental accord. Quite co-equal 
with Hegel, as a tutelary deity, was Emerson, who 
shone resplendently on the literary horizon. Then 
there was "the acorn-eating Alcott," as Carlyle 
termed him, who more than once migrated to St. 
Louis with his Pythagorean stores of wisdom. 

Of all this unique group, William Torrey Harris 
became the most widely recognized figure. Mr. 

en] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

Snider speaks of one in the shadowy background 
(his throne veiled and shrouded as becomes a god) — 
the figure of Henry Brockmeyer, whose strange per- 
sonality dominated every one, even Doctor Harris. 
The latter, to be sure, was the most unassuming of 
mortals, and his sway was due to the intense alle- 
giance of his friends, never by his own will. 

But "University Brockmeyer," as Mr. Snider face- 
tiously termed him, was a law unto himself. No 
one knew, and if he himself knew he never told, what 
order of life he sprang from or how he came to be 
upon a planet which he apparently held in the slightest 
possible respect. He held no converse with social 
amenities. He made the winds his chariot and com- 
manded the powers of the earth and air to do his 
bidding. He was "surrounded by a Mephistophelian 
quality," as is the sun by its atmosphere. It seems 
that he had emerged to view at Brown University, 
then under the presidency of Francis Wayland, whom 
he successfully combated and put to rout regarding 
Doctor Wayland's views on the Higher Law. Flushed 
with triumph from this conquest, he devised his own 
course of study without benefit of curriculum. He 
attached himself to Edgar Allan Poe, and to Sarah 
H. Whitman. But in his subsequent St. Louis days 
I gather that he had shaken off all impedimenta, 
poetic friendships among the rest. Still with his incal- 
culable arrogance he is said to have combined an ex- 
quisite tenderness and lavish generosity. It was he 
who, chancing to meet Mr. Snider — then in his ear- 
liest twenties — invited the youth to attend a meeting 
of the Philosophical Club. Is it in the Talmud 

[12] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

that the messenger is synonymous with the angel? 
And are these casual encounters with unrecognized 
messengers the appointed angelic means for guidance? 
Does it not, indeed, often seem that this is true? The 
messengers are not infrequently imperative in their 
commands. "You must believe my beliefs; hope my 
hopes; see the vision to which I point; behold a glory 
where I behold it!" as George Eliot phrases the atti- 
tude of these people who come and go in our lives, 
and whom we only recognize retrospectively. The 
prefigured friend signals to us from the golden back- 
ground, and as by the wand of an enchanter, all the 
conditions of life are changed. Mr. Snider 's experi- 
ence illustrated this speculative truth. His messenger 
proved to be Mr. Brockmeyer and his acceptance of 
the invitation to the Philosophical Club made a 
turning-point in his life. The meetings were held in 
the home of Doctor Harris. The room was a scholar's 
haunt, indeed, with its well-filled book shelves above 
which hung many classic engravings. The young 
stranger was welcomed by the poet with that gentle 
grace which invested Doctor Harris, and the initiation 
of being thus invited to sup with the gods came in the 
guise of an assignment to translate Hegel's exploitation 
of the primal forces of nature. 

An amusing tradition of the Club was the first 
appearance of Bronson Alcott among them, with his 
gray hair luxuriantly sweeping his shoulders, his 
blue eyes lifted as if seeing the invisible, who read 
his lengthy and oracular paper in a sepulchral tone 
that suggested a voice from the cave of Trophonius. 
"His Orphic utterance was dark and tortuous," re- 

[13] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

lates Mr. Snider; "and Brockmeyer, chief hierophant, 
exploded the old prophet's theme till all meaning 
vanished. Mr. Alcott (vaguely suspicious of Hege- 
lian processes) exclaimed, 'Mr. Brockmeyer, you 
confound us by the multiplicity of your words and the 
profusion of your fancy.' " 

Emerson came out to St. Louis to lecture before this 
club. They gathered at his hotel to give him greeting. 
These strange worshipers of Teutonic gods filled his 
serene soul with dismay. " I cannot find," he inimitably 
said, "any striking sentence in Hegel which I can 
quote." The epigram was Mr. Emerson's touchstone in 
literature. "I always test an author," he pathetically 
confided to the Club, "by the number of single good 
things which I can catch from his pages. When I fish 
in Hegel I cannot get a bite; but I get a headache." 

Systematic thought was anathema to Emerson. 
The specters of the Brocken could not more inevitably 
conjure up horrors before him. 

Halsey C. Ives, afterward the Director of the St. 
Louis Museum of Fine Arts which was another of the 
munificent gifts of Wayman Crow to his city, became 
an authority in the world of Art; and his sudden death 
in London, a few years ago, deprived artistic life of 
one of the more eminent connoisseurs. In the Museum 
in St. Louis has been placed a bust of Wayman Crow, 
the gift of Harriet Hosmer, modeled in Rome in 1868. 
To Mr. Crow Miss Hosmer then wrote: 

"The bust ought to be a statue and that statue of 
gold, to repay you for all the trouble and care you have 
taken for and of me, you, my best friend. Where 
should I have been without you?" 

[14] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

A personality so exceptional as that of Mr. Crow 
becomes a permanent influence to accompany one 
through all the marching years. 

Life is, indeed, one unbroken chain of sequences. 
My own treasured debt of gratitude to Mr. Crow, as 
being among those who were benefited by his public 
services to literature and art, has been expressed more 
than once to his granddaughter, Elise Emmons, cf 
England, to which country Mr. Crow's youngest 
daughter, Mary, removed on her marriage to Robert 
Emmons of Boston. It is Mrs. Emmons to whom I 
dedicated a little book entitled "The Adventure 
Beautiful"; and many Roman winters have been 
enhanced to me by the companionship of her only 
daughter, one of my nearest circle of friends. This 
happiness has been to me a lovely sequence of these 
student days. 

Included in this notable St. Louis group was a 
woman whom the world will not soon forget. Susan 
Blow was one of the essentially great women of the 
century just passed, and she initiated work that has 
perpetuated itself in child culture and education. 
With the freedom and leisure made possible by 
large wealth she gave herself to the establishment 
of the kindergarten system in her native city. Miss 
Blow taught the system to the instructors she selected 
and whose salaries she personally paid. Every Satur- 
day morning she gave a lecture to her staff of teachers, 
the lectures also being open to any one who wished to 
hear them. So freely was this privilege embraced 
that her audience was usually limited only by the 
size of the hall in which they were delivered. They 

[15] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

were educational addresses in the largest sense and 
were as applicable to the fine art of life as they were 
to the art of instruction. Not among the least of the 
opportunities afforded students outside the university 
itself was this inestimable privilege of coming under 
an influence so noble and so inspiring with its call 
to the life of the spirit as was this of listening to Susan 
Blow. As an interpreter of Dante, her service was 
great. "Holiness," she would say, "is not an evolu- 
tion, but a revealed and communicated life." Her 
teaching offered high counsel. College students usu- 
ally penetrate into a somewhat larger environment 
than that of the institution itself, and it is often this 
environment which becomes more of an absolute factor 
in the advancement of life. 

Education is a far larger thing than that of class- 
room instruction. To one of the younger members 
of this group printers' ink had an irresistible fas- 
cination. If any local journal could be beguiled 
into printing her rhymes and prose concoctions there 
was little left for her to ask from the gods. It was no 
question of the coin of the realm. The ecstasy of 
seeing one's day-dream materialized in the columns 
of the leading morning or evening paper was a fore- 
taste of Paradise. And if she were so venturesome 
as to send a bit of verse to New York and receive for 
it a check of five dollars, the magic slip of paper seemed 
quite too fascinating to be transformed into a mere 
bank bill. Bank bills could be had — or gone without! 
For the most part, in this particular case, they were 
gone without, but that made for nothing. It didn't 
much matter either way. But a check bearing the 

[16] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

name of a well-known publisher — that was something 
with which to conjure. 

In one of the prominent daily journals of St. Louis 
there was then appearing, in the Sunday issue, a series 
of Washington letters, keen, humorous, racy, signed 
"Ruhamah." They were not without a very intelli- 
gent and interesting line of political comment, and 
the individuality of the writer excited no little curiosity. 
The newspaper letter at this time, and for a number 
of years after, was one of the favorite features of 
journalism. George William Curtis had graced that 
department of journalism with his enchanting pen; 
George W. Smalley had won fame as a London cor- 
respondent, his letters presenting such interests as 
lectures by Huxley, Tyndall, and other noted scien- 
tists, statesmen, or men of letters. Kate Field con- 
tributed brilliant letters from Paris, keeping her readers 
au coward with French authors, and new books; 
much of the best of literature then appeared in the 
daily press. The "Ruhamah" letters from Washing- 
ton were extremely spicy, and it may not be without 
interest now to identify these letters with the brilliant 
Eliza Ruhamah Scidmore of Washington and Japan, 
the author of several books and of delightful papers in 
the Century and other leading magazines and reviews. 
Born in Wisconsin, Miss Scidmore followed her star 
to the Capital with which she has since become 
widely identified in social and literary prominence. 
The Orient has been her happy hunting-ground, and 
her familiarity with Japan, China, and India has not 
only enabled her to interpret the life and the trend of 
progress in these countries; but has also afforded her 

[17] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

matter for much descriptive and scenic work, as that of 
making a pilgrimage to Java, and writing of its old 
temples and mysterious rites in richly illustrated 
papers which have attracted wide attention. 

Emerson speaks of the "flowing conditions" of 
life. Circumstances, he notes, are fluidic. Groups 
of people are drawn together for a little time and 
then dispersed, but all that is real in personal relations 
persists. So far as friendships are spiritual relations, 
they are the most permanent and indestructible of 
realities. No space can separate those who are joined 
in spirit. And so the real friendships formed in early 
youth will, by their own law of magnetism, bring 
together persons again and again all through life, in 
varying places and under all changes of circumstance. 

The "flowing conditions" transferred Doctor Harris 
to Concord, Massachusetts, to fulfill his ardent wish 
to "live as a neighbor to Emerson and Alcott." Denton 
J. Snider became one of the regular summer lecturers 
before the School of Philosophy in which Mr. Alcott 
found his Elysium. The group was widely scattered, 
but it was a beneficent fate to be brought in contact 
with such people as these in the impressionable and 
plastic period of early youth. For it was what they 
all were, even more than any specific thing they had 
achieved, that generated a noble atmosphere. 

If Kant and Hegel owed more of their popularity 
with the group of eager and ardent young people to 
the fact that Doctor Harris loved them than they did 
to their innate merits; if the great world-poets — 
Dante, Shakespeare, and Goethe — were invested for 
all this group with the charm of his lectures on them; 

[18] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

if the tragic poets of Greece were seen through some- 
what of the same enchanted air, as one sees Persian 
poetry through the glamour with which Emerson 
invested it, — there were other authors much read by 
one wayfarer who browsed about in libraries and 
literature, because of their direct appeal to herself and 
not, primarily, because of Doctor Harris. 

Born and bred in a home whose chief furnishings 
and resources were books and periodicals, the habit 
of reading thus became instinctive and unconscious; 
and with what avidity did she in early youth thus 
fall upon the modern English classics. In Words- 
worth, Coleridge, Walter Savage Landor, Macaulay, 
Carlyle, Newman; Grote, whose history of Greece 
yet remains unsurpassed; Guizot; Buckle, in his most 
vital and suggestive "History of Civilization"; and 
Gibbon, who, strangely, conceived his sublime dream 
when standing on the steps of the Capitoline, where, 
on the very spot, a hundred years later, Mill first 
thought of his work which later appeared under the 
title, "On Liberty." Then there were Ruskin, Tenny- 
son, Browning, Matthew Arnold, John Morley, Ros- 
setti, George Eliot, Walter Pater; Swinburne, with his 
ineffable music; Victor Hugo and George Sand. Note- 
books and pencil became the tools of everyday life. 
What wonderful passages were found in the poets to 
repeat to one's self, walking the streets while facing 
a golden sunset. Always there are Dante and Brown- 
ing; then, too, one dipped into the Italian pages of 
Villari; and also into Balzac, Michelet, De Musset, 
Lamartine, Mme. de Sevigne, Pascal, Sainte-Beuve, 
Guizot, Montaigne, Baudelaire, and Paul Bourget. 

[19] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

All was fish that came to the net of one voracious 
reader. Young persons who plunge headlong into 
literature because they love it, and not because they 
are required to "take a course in literature," see the 
world of books from a very different angle of vision 
from those who, with rational and measured foresight, 
endeavor to gain a speaking acquaintance with great 
authors because of the manifest propriety of such an 
acquirement. 

The Mercantile Library in St. Louis was much of 
a treasure-trove of the best that has been thought and 
said in the realm of letters, and to one unimportant 
student who was its devotee, these library resources 
were too apt to prove exclusive of the specific study 
that any well-regulated student is supposed to pursue, 
for this alcoved library beckoned perpetually with 
the fascination of an earthly paradise. 

Margaret Fuller (Marchesa d'Ossoli), became a name 
with which to conjure. Her wonderful insight into 
the very springs of life itself was calculated to enthrall 
a dreamy and rudimentary girl who perceived the world 
as reflected through the pages of books rather than 
from outer realities themselves, and who was too 
prone to regard the land of dreams as the only country 
worth living in. 

To the eager reader to whom hours in this library 
were the very elixir of life, the reading of the Ossoli 
Memoirs had the effect of holding a candle to a torch, 
which could not but be ignited, however feeble its 
flame. It was a tumultuous experience to read those 
passages of Margaret Fuller's diaries, and an experi- 
ence that recorded itself in a series of two papers on 

[20] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

the Marchesa d'Ossoli, amply decorated and adorned 
with citations from these wonderful pages — a con- 
coction that by some chance or instinct its writer dis- 
patched to Murat Halstead, one of the great editors 
of those days, whose journal, The Cincinnati Com- 
mercial, was held in marked esteem throughout the 
Mississippi Valley. To the incredible joy of their 
originator, these papers appeared in two successive 
Sunday issues, and their writer trod on air. As, from 
her gratuitous contributions to the local press in 
St. Louis (their number only limited by the degree of 
editorial tolerance that they met), she had become the 
ecstatic possessor of more or less railroad "passes" 
(for in those halcyon days the press writers were 
largely exempt from the necessity of buying railroad 
tickets, free transportation being one of the felicitous 
perquisites of the press), the contributor fared forth 
for Cincinnati. After all, it involved only one day's 
absence. A night journey, a day in the neighboring 
city, the return on that night, and, chi lo sa? the 
great editor might even promise her a place on his 
paper in a not distant future. 

To the order of humanity to whom one swallow 
makes a summer, to whom a bird in the bush is as 
assured an asset as an entire flock in the hand, to the 
touching confidence of these natures, nothing ever 
seems impossible. It is not at all that they are particu- 
larly endowed with courage; but they are so richly 
endowed with ignorance of all the real conditions of 
life that it serves just as well. They expect the 
impossible, and they usually find it. Wherefore should 
one be the possessor of an "annual," good on any 

[21] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

railroad, if not for impromptu journeys? With an 
outfit about equally composed of ignorance and 
enthusiasm, the wayfarer set forth and the result 
seemed to sustain the wisdom of expecting the im- 
possible and of only being surprised when it did not 
occur. By what necromancy the spell was wrought 
does not appear on record; but, at all events, the great 
editor was pleased to assign to the tyro an immediate 
task; later, it was revealed that a reporter on the 
staff had just left, and that there was thereby a va- 
cancy. The immediate task designated was to "write 
up" (in the parlance of journalism) the June exhibition 
of wood carving at the school of Mr. Benn Pitman. 
As it chanced, the tyro had already been employing 
the leisure of the morning hours in a visit to this 
school, so the assignment fell into place like a bit of 
material in a mosaic. On the appearance of the little 
report in the paper the next morning, Mr. Pitman 
(moved by one knows not what kindness of heart) 
wrote a commendatory note regarding it to the editor 
which, to say the least, did not discourage his possible 
intention to permit the aspirant a trial on his well- 
known journal. And so, sans ceremonie, in the most 
entirely unforeseen way, a new chapter of life began 
with the instanteousness of a transformation. Study 
and amateur contributions to anything where the 
contribution was tolerated merged this initiation, 
on however microscopic a scale, into professional 
journalism. 

Professor Bjerregaard, of the Public Library in New 
York, has said, in some of his mystic writings, that 
our true life is the life we have never lived; that life 

[22] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

of thought and ideals which cannot fully actualize 
itself in time. Of these first experiences in journalism 
I could truly say that the only thing of any importance 
was the thing I did not do. Wendell Phillips came 
to Cincinnati to deliver a lecture, or to be present at 
some meeting, and to my mingled terror and delight 
the interview, which in those days was inseparable 
from every celebrity who arrived in a city, was assigned 
to me. With about equal fear and admiration I 
sought the great man. I had not the faintest idea 
what to say or what to ask him, and in the very desper- 
ation of failure I confided to him this blankness of 
ignorance, which, to be sure, was sufficiently evident 
to require no assertion. Instantly all that infinite 
kindness of his came to my aid. 

"Well, well," he said, in those musical tones that 
once heard no one could ever forget, "now if you 
were to ask me so-and-so I should reply thus." And 
so, with question and answer, Mr. Phillips went on, 
the result being, of course, an unusual press interview. 
I hastened back and asked to see my "Chief," and in 
no little trepidation confessed: 

"Mr. Halstead, I did not write a word of this; 
Mr. Phillips wrote it all; will it do?" 

The autocrat among editors received this astonish- 
ing statement with a twinkle in his eye. "Well, if 
Wendell Phillips wrote it, I guess it is pretty fair!" 
he replied, with a touch of humorous sarcasm. 

To a seeker to whom a "place on a newspaper" 
had been the star of her dreams the actual experience 
was a daily joy. For a few months this midsummer's 
day dream continued, when again a transformation 

[23] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

scene was effected in fairly the twinkling of an eye 
by that swift scene-shifter, the goddess of Destiny, 
and the precipitous hills of Cincinnati faded in the 
distance, while the sun rose over the blue Atlantic 
and glorified Boston Common. 



[24] 



n 

LITERARY LIFE IN BOSTON 

I am primarily engaged to myself to be a servant of 
all the gods; to demonstrate to all men that there is good- 
will and intelligence at the heart of things, and ever 
higher and yet higher leadings. These are my engage- 
ments. If there be power in good intention, in fidelity, 
and in toil, the north wind shall be purer, the stars in 
heaven shall glow with a kindlier beam, that I have lived. 

Emerson 

CSTON was unquestionably the literary Mecca 
of the country during the nineteenth century. 
A remarkable galaxy of authors, thinkers, reformers — 
idealists of many visions — invested the city with a 
special atmosphere of its own. Boston was a center 
in which was focused a remarkable order of thought; 
one that concerned itself so largely with the forces 
that make for universal progress that literature became 
in reality a liberal art, indeed, its leading industry, 
so to speak. The name of the city was fairly a syn- 
onym for aspiration, culture, and a higher quality 
of life. Into this Boston it was a rich privilege to 
enter. 

The lyric and the dramatic stage were made memo- 
rable by great foreign artists, as well as by native 
genius, which stood comparison with Salvini, with 
Sir Henry Irving, with Sarah Bernhardt. There was 

[25] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

the charm of a social life wonderful because it was so 
largely a society of great personalities; the Lowell 
Institute called many leading scientists and men of 
letters from abroad to its platform, from which splendid 
courses of lectures were given; the Boston pulpit was 
renowned for the eminence of its clergy, — James 
Freeman Clarke, Edward Everett Hale, Phillips Brooks, 
and Minot Judson Savage. The Museum of Fine 
Arts, under the admirable directorship of Charles 
W. Loring, called Edward Robinson (now the Director 
of the Metropolitan of New York) to the Curatorship 
of Classical Sculpture and Antiquities, and invited 
Ernest Francisco Fenollosa, of the University of Tokio, 
Japan, to organize and conduct a Department of Orien- 
tal Art. Enneking was painting his enchanting inter- 
pretations of nature; Cyrus E. Dallin was already 
offering the pledge and promise of his present greatness 
in sculpture; and a notable and inspiring feature of 
the Boston life were the local lectures of the day. 
Lucy Stone, Julia Ward Howe, and Mary A. Liver- 
more, gave their great messages; Thomas Wentworth 
Higginson, Abby Morton Diaz, Frank Benjamin 
Sanborn, — these and others equally well known held 
the platform and charmed the people and enlarged 
the vision for all that is noblest in life. Oliver Wen- 
dell Holmes was a familiar figure in the streets; Whit- 
tier was allured from his rural haunts to make frequent 
sojourns as the guest of Mrs. James T. Fields, and of 
Governor and Mrs. Claflin; Harriet Prescott SpofTord, 
whose poems and romances laid their spell upon the 
staid New England life, came from her island in the 
Merrimac; Louise Chandler Moulton, dividing every 

[26] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

year between London and Boston, with her wide 
circle of literary friendships abroad was a vital link 
of closer contact between the literati of both cities. 
William Dean Ho wells edited the Atlantic Monthly. 
He was succeeded in his editorship by Thomas Bailey 
Aldrich, when Mr. Howells left the Puritan capital 
for New York, which a veracious historian may still 
regard as the only unkind act in his lovely life. Emer- 
son and Longfellow had passed; Lowell was represent- 
ing his country at the Court of St. James. The fame 
of Edwin Percy Whipple, as one of the most enthralling 
of lyceum lecturers, was still in the air, and the home 
of the Whipples in Pinckney Street was a sort of 
literary Mecca. 

As one of the early editors of the North American 
Review, the only critical review of the country at that 
time, Mr. Whipple had been in close touch with 
Hawthorne, Emerson, Longfellow, Lowell, Whittier, 
Holmes, all of whom discussed their work, more or 
less, with him, and sought that understanding sym- 
pathy and comprehension which he was so well fitted 
to give and which is singularly sustaining to the 
spirits of the writer. The Whipple home thus became 
somewhat of a repository of notable manuscripts, — • 
autograph copies of poems and masses of personal 
letters from the authors whose works we now hold as 
American classics. For one book 1 of my own Mrs. 
Whipple's generous kindness permitted me the use of 
the autograph copies of "The Chambered Nautilus," 
in the characteristic writing of Doctor Holmes, and of 
Mr. Longfellow's poem, "The Rainy Day," in his 

1 "Boston Days." Boston, Little Brown & Company, 1902-12. 

[27] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

beautiful transcription, to be reproduced in facsimile, 
and also some autograph letters of notable authors. 

Ignorance, if it be dense enough, may sometimes 
serve one as well as courage; and it could only have 
been a highly-evolved degree of this possession that 
lured to Boston (of all cities) an untried devotee of 
journalism, with the confident hope of finding a niche 
in which to work. One must know something of the 
world beyond what he has gathered from the pages of 
poets to realize the obstacles in the path. In faring 
forth on the uncharted realm of letters there was grati- 
tude for the tie of heredity, for the consolation of 
forefathers not undistinguished, for the direct descent, 
even so many generations removed, from the Doctors 
Mather. There was a certain felicity in feeling that 
one was entitled to share in the Bostonian worship 
of illustrious ancestry — a worship hardly less impas- 
sioned than that of the Japanese. 

To make a pilgrimage to Copp's Hill and watch 
the summer sunshine on the blue waters of the bay 
from the graves of Increase, Cotton, and Samuel 
Mather, feeling that one had a certain proprietary 
right to a special interest in their long-past lives, 
occasioned a thrill of conscious joy. And all the 
unmapped future that lay before seemed to send its 
petition for aid and direction from these lofty spirits 
to enable their remote descendant to live in a manner 
not quite unworthy their example. 

Increase Mather (the son of Richard Mather) lived 
between 1639 and 1723, and from 1681 to 1717 he was 
the president of Harvard College; Cotton Mather's 
life fell between 1662 and 1727, during which period 

[28] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

lie wrote and published three hundred and eighty- 
three books, preached innumerable sermons, and had 
the honor of being the first American ever elected a 
Fellow of the Royal Society in London; Samuel 
Mather, 1706-1785, entered Harvard at thirteen, 
graduating four years later, and preached in Boston 
for fifty-three consecutive years. It is he who wrote 
a biography of his father, Cotton Mather, a record 
which probably to some extent served Professor Barrett 
Wendell in his more copious and able life of the noted 
divine. Richard Mather, also a clergyman (1596- 
1669), was the writer of a book appearing in 1640 which 
is said to have been the first book published in America. 
The arms of the Mathers seem to have been a shield 
of deepest blue and gold, signifying hope and trust, 
with three golden balls against an ermine ground. 

To arrive in the city of letters with one's sole capital 
consisting in a note of introduction to Mr. Howells 
would not lead the sibyl to venture rose-hued prophe- 
cies. The Transcript and the Traveler were then the 
two leading evening papers, and some unexplained 
magnetism led me to apply to Colonel Roland Worth- 
ington, the founder and proprietor of the Traveler, 
for a place on his paper. 

"We've had one or two women, and we don't want 
one again," was the encouraging reply. 

"Yes, but you haven't had me" I suggested, and 
apparently the audacity of the response deprived the 
arbiter of fate of the power to deny this wandering 
wayfarer. Colonel Worthington did not concede too 
much, however, and had it not been that my desire 
was aided and abetted by his managing editor, James 

[29] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

W. Clarke, the audacity alone would hardly have 
opened the door. Like the immortal Omar I should 
have exclaimed, — 

" There was the Door to which I found no hey ! " 

Colonel Worthington had the traditional history 
of the self-made American, and his evolution had 
included a transition from an office boy in the estab- 
lishment of an old and famous morning journal, to a 
prosperous millionaire proprietor of his own paper. 
He was a man of keen intelligence; a shrewd financier, 
and he usually conceived of literary values in the terms 
of finance. "If you can get a ten-dollar item by spend- 
ing two dollars, it is a good investment, is it not?" 
he would say. This view of the intellectual resources 
of the universe was particularly cheering to one to 
whom the "item" held preeminence over the dollar; 
and the proprietor's liberal ideas of the intrinsic value 
of news accorded well with his petitioner's innate love 
of tripping about, and resulted in a week at Saratoga, 
to report the Social Science Association that for so 
many years met the first week in September in this 
summer resort, and of which Frank B. Sanborn was 
the efficient and always charming secretary. There 
followed excursions to the White Mountains, to New 
York City, trips to the North Shore, and when the 
blissful custom of providing railroad passes and 
paying one's hotel bills prevailed, on the newspaper 
that tolerated his concoctions, why should any stray 
wayfarer concern himself about mere money? In 
this particular instance the money was as non-existent 

[30] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

as the concern; but the rapture of the work left no 
room for other considerations. My own demands on 
life were not unlike those formulated by Motley in 
his early youth, who declared that he could do without 
the necessities if only he could have the luxuries. 
For in my initiative work on a ten-dollars-a-week 
stipend, I joyfully paid six dollars for a matinee ticket 
to hear Madame Patti, not foreseeing the numerous 
subsequent opportunities to hear the divine diva 
without money and without price. There were seats 
that did not cost six dollars; but if one is to hear a 
great artist, one wants to be within the radius of her 
magnetism. The necessities of life figured little in 
my desires compared to the luxuries of art and beauty. 

Again, the event of the hour in the literary world 
was the publication of a volume, splendidly issued by 
the Houghton Mifflin house, of Vedder's marvelous 
illustrations to accompany the letter-press of Fitz- 
gerald's notable translation of the Rubaiyat of Omar 
Khayyam. To a journalistic beginner on the modest 
stipend mentioned, a book that had but two editions, 
one priced at a hundred, and the other at twenty-five 
dollars a copy, might have seemed an impossible pur- 
chase; yet to possess this (in the twenty-five-dollar 
issue) prefigured itself to me as the one sine qua non of 
existence. There were, of course, things I could live 
without; but this mingled marvel of Vedder and of 
Omar did not seem to be included in that category. 

So a little note was dispatched to the famous pub- 
lishing house, asking if one might be permitted to pay 
for a copy by five-dollar installments, and thus have 
it reserved, as the edition was a limited one? But 

[31] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

what was my rapture on returning to my vine and fig- 
tree one night to find the wonderful book already 
delivered, with the kindest of notes from its publishers, 
reducing the price from twenty-five to fifteen dollars, 
and saying that this payment might be made quite at 
the convenience of the recipient. Was such kindness 
ever to be forgotten? It was a joy that persisted, a 
sign-post on the Golden Road, as has also persisted 
the gratitude it inspired. 

The name of Vedder had already become one with 
which to conjure; and these Vedderesque drawings, 
that seemed to portray the inner thought of Omar 
Khayyam, projected their resplendence and mystic 
wonder into the very fabric of life. In his own copy 
of this work Mr. Vedder afterward wrote: 

"Omar! when I these pictures made 

I loved as madly, drank as deep 
As ever thou didst, in the shade 

Of roses, by the river's brink. 

Now Winter's come. I sit and think 
Of sweet friends gone, I know not where, 
Chill is the air of garden bare 

As is the wind that blows forlorn 

That takes the rose, and leaves the thorn." 

This indulgence in Patti concerts and Vedder draw- 
ings did not suggest itself to me as an extravagance 
at all. Art, beauty, all that wonder-realm of life, 
presented itself as included in the very reasons for 
being in Boston; as the capital on which to draw, the 
material out of which the fabric of life was to be 
woven. 

Curiously the first local assignment given me by the 
[32] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

Traveler was that of interviewing Kate Field, who had 
just returned from one of her numerous trips to Europe 
and who was about to give her monologue, "Eyes and 
Ears in London," before a Boston audience. On this 
occasion Miss Field was the guest of Mr. and Mrs. 
A. V. S. Anthony, on the "water side" of Beacon 
Street; and my first sight of her was as she stood in 
the library, with the blue waters of the Charles seen 
through the windows as a background, a pretty figure 
in a Paris gown whose shade matched her bronze- 
brown hair. She spoke of various things, and of 
people whose names were those to conjure with, and 
at the end bade me come and see her again whenever 
she was in Boston. This seemed an anticipation as 
shadowy as it was delightful; and the horoscope of 
the future did not reveal that I should eventually 
become her biographer, 1 nor that a strange mystic 
drama, partially recorded in a little book of mine 
("After Her Death; The Story of a Summer") should 
be enacted between us in a not distant future. 

Reared in a household life largely dominated by 
books and literary comment, I had been familiar with 
the name of Dora d'Istria, the nom-de-plume of the 
Princess Koltzoff Massassky; and learning that this 
princess of the southern Danube region was actually 
sojourning on the North Shore, I had a great desire 
to meet and to write of her. This ambitious hope 
could hardly have been fulfilled had it not been for 
the aid of Mrs. Susan Bertram, a special friend of the 
Princess, whose kindness paved the way for me. There 
was a corner of the seaside piazza especially preempted 

1 Kate Field; A Record. Boston; Little, Brown, and Company, 1899. 

[33] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

by the Princess in the late afternoon, and there Mrs. 
Bertram took me to await the distinguished guest, 
while a maid who was a sort of avant courier appeared 
with the stage properties, so to speak, of the Princess: 
a table to place by her easy chair, cushions, flowers, 
books; and following all these the lady herself, simple, 
unassuming, fascinating. Helena Ghika, a princess in 
her own right, if I mistake not, had married the Rus- 
sian prince whose name she bore, and she spoke at 
some length of her literary work, her aim and effort 
to benefit the less fortunate class of women in her 
country; of her villa in Florence, Italy, where she 
passed much of her time in rapt enjoyment of the 
beauty and the art of that city; and of the visit of the 
Emperor of Brazil made to her in Florence. In reply 
to some question as to what she and the Emperor had 
most discussed, she said it was his eucalyptus trees 
in Brazil. These, she said, interested him beyond 
any questions of politics, art, or general topics. 

Out of this talk grew an article for the New York 
Tribune, one for the Boston Sunday Herald, as well as 
another portion served up in the columns of the Trav- 
eler. Later the Princess was so amiable as to send 
me a photograph of herself, taken in her youth and 
beauty, with some manuscript data of her writings, 
which were voluminous. The photograph is now to 
be seen in the albums of autograph letters in the Boston 
Public Library, the letters thus mounted being largely 
those written to Kate Field by many of the famous 
people of the mid-nineteenth century, inclusive of 
many from the Brownings, Walter Savage Landor, 
and others, which I had the pleasure of presenting 

[34] ' 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

to the Library, with the addition, from time to time, 
of stray literary matters of my own for I have laid 
up my treasures, not, alas! I fear, in heaven, but in 
my earthly paradise, the Public Library of Boston. 

The School of Philosophy at Concord was a notable 
and brilliant assemblage, and as the Traveler must 
needs send a reporter to record its learned disquisi- 
tions, the newest and least important member of the 
staff begged the privilege of taking up her residence 
in that famous village for the six weeks' summer 
session of the school. An indulgent chief granted the 
request, one contributing element doubtless being 
that to most of the workers on the paper the very 
name of Concordian philosophy was anathema. The 
press in general were more apt to regard these lectures 
as matter for irreverent witticism than to take Mr. 
Alcott's academy at all seriously. But to the new- 
comer Concord was the chosen haunt of the Muses and 
the Graces; the privilege of listening again to Doctor 
William T. Harris was one to prize, and the discourse 
of Pythagoras to the Athenians could not have seemed 
to them more convincingly great than seemed to her 
those of Mr. Alcott, Doctor Harris, President McCosh 
of Princeton, Mrs. Howe, Denton J. Snider, Thomas 
Davidson, Doctor Elisha Mulford, and Mr. Sanborn. 
The philosophers formed an enthralling group. 

The Boston literati were by no means synonymous 
with the devotees of the School of Philosophy. Mrs. 
Howe was about the only one of the immortals who was 
much in evidence there. The themes discussed ranged 
over Mysticism, Platonic Philosophy, the Personality 
of God; and Mr. Alcott's rambling discourses included 

[35] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

dissertations on Plotinus, Behmen, Eckhart, St. John, 
and Swedenborg. Thoreau's manuscripts were laid 
under tribute, and there were not wanting lectures 
on the "Genesis of the Maya," and the proofs of the 
"Pre-existence of the Soul." Mr. Howells's witticism 
in making a character in one of his Boston novels say 
that she "hoped that her soul was immortal, but 
knew it was cultivated," would not have applied to 
the Concord group, whose convictions regarding the 
permanence of their souls were unalterable. 

Hillside Chapel was almost as primitive as the groves 
in which Plato taught. Between the rough boards of 
the walls were wide spaces, through which creeping 
vines and stray branches of greenery made their way, 
and about the interior were placed busts of Plato, 
Pestalozzi, Emerson, and Alcott, and a mask of Anax- 
agoras cheerfully decorated one wall. The mercury 
not infrequently stood at ninety-three degrees during 
these enlivening discourses; but the easy accessibility 
of the forest shades enabled the less philosophic mind 
to escape into the alluring coolness for an interlude 
in which to pull itself together for another grapple 
with the truths of the sages. During a five hours 
"continuous performance" (as were the lectures of 
good Doctor McCosh) it was even possible to slip 
away for a row on Concord River, with Mr. John 
Bartlett, the time-honored cicerone of Concord. Every 
visitor to the town, of any claim, had been invited 
by Mr. Bartlett for a row up to that mysteriously 
green and luminous part of the river (mentioned by 
Hawthorne in the "Mosses from an Old Manse") 
where the overhanging trees so mirror themselves in 

.[36] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

the water as to give the illusion of a forest beneath 
its depths, rather than on its banks. The boat would 
also glide by the "Old Manse," with its one poplar 
tree silhouetted against the sky, and its reminiscences 
of old Doctor Ripley, who, when the family "shay" 
was overturned, with most of the family in it, made 
the occurrence the subject of his evening prayer, ask- 
ing that the Lord would teach him to "suitably profit" 
by this unpleasant experience. 

The contrast between the profound discourses of 
the speakers at the Concord school and the rural 
simplicity of the village life was amusing. At the 
evening sessions in Hillside Chapel there would be a 
shaded lamp on the platform table for the speaker, 
but the remainder of the interior would be lighted only 
by stray gleams of moonlight, or by some wandering 
firefly, less effective than his fellows who fairly illu- 
minate the Florentine gardens in summer. But 
Doctor Harris's favorite quotation from Novalis 
made itself an article of faith to the Concord group; 
the assertion that "Philosophy can bake no bread; 
but she can procure for us God, Freedom, and Immor- 
tality." 

One morning when the apple blossoms wafted their 
fragrance on the air from the grounds of the "Orchard 
House," and the sunshine stole through the rude walls 
of the chapel to rest on Rose Hawthorne (Mrs. 
Lathrop) turning her hair to Titian gold, Mrs. Howe 
was the speaker. She was in a pearl-gray gown with 
a little knot of violets in her corsage; and at the close 
of her address she responded to a request and recited 
these fine and subtle lines of her own: 

[37] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

"Power, reft of aspiration; 
Passion, lacking inspiration; 
Leisure, not of contemplation, — 

"Thus shall danger overcome thee; 
Fretted luxury consume thee; 
All divineness vanish from thee." 

The lectures of Doctor Harris made the same strong 
appeal that had characterized them in St. Louis in the 
preceding decade. His manner had the same charm, 
and when Professor Snider whose talks on Greece 
held audiences spellbound, remarked of Doctor Harris, 
"He is too great for any praise of mine," the words 
inspired universal assent. 

Tall, erect as an arrow, with a distinction of presence 
unfailingly felt by all; with a ready wit that some- 
times merged into caustic sarcasm; yet with the 
most gentle and even tender consideration for any 
sincere inquirer, Mr. Sanborn was one of the notable 
figures. He was a communicator, a very radiator of 
vitalizing power. No one could more swiftly extin- 
guish any presumption; no one could be more kind 
to earnest quest. 

There was nothing of the transcendental about 
Louisa Alcott. "I flee the town when the philosophers 
arrive," she remarked one morning when, just as she 
was leaving, I chanced to meet her on the street, a 
large, matronly figure, always plainly dressed and 
with an air of being in somewhat hurried transit, 
yet with beautiful eyes and a smile that won the heart. 

In the present time of world problems, it is half 
incredible to realize that in the eighties the question 
of Romanticism vs. Realism should fairly assume the 

[38] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

proportions of a cause celehre. The discussion as to 
whether fiction was an art became a vital question. 
(It had not then, at all events, become an industry!) 
Up to this time there had been a prevailing conviction, 
as I believe Henry James pointed out, that a novel 
was a novel, as a pudding is a pudding, and it had not 
been subjected to laboratory methods of analysis. 
The spark that ignited this conflagration was a remark 
made by Mr. Howells that the art of fiction had be- 
come a finer one than in the days of Thackeray and 
Dickens. A flash in a powder magazine could hardly 
have burst into more instantaneous results. All the 
intellectual world was up in arms, and the Puritan 
City, as the very focus of literary activities, had no 
choice but to approach the matter with the deadly 
earnestness of the Bostonian. Was not this city the 
conservator, the divinely-appointed guardian of the 
arts? The Transcript became a battleground. Novel- 
writers and novel-readers felt their responsibility. 
Walter Besant delivered an address on "The Art of 
Fiction" before the Royal Institution in London, 
setting forth, if memory serve me aright, a number of 
admirable recipes which, if the ingredients were skill- 
fully blended, were warranted to turn out a novel; 
and Henry James responded with a vivid portrayal 
of the value of a certain gift known as imagination. 
It was instanced that the writer has in his possession 
two kinds of material, one that he has lived outwardly; 
the other that he has lived by imagination, and that 
the latter was the more important and valuable to 
him. The question as to what is real was much in 
the air. Was it only real when a man was described 

[39] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

as hanging his battered hat on a nail, or when a woman 
in unkempt gown stood over a frying pan? Were 
there not realities of mental states, spiritual realities, 
more truly real than are concrete things? Was there 
ever truer realism than that offered by George Eliot, 
in her series of great novels? Yet the great events in 
these romances happened in the mental atmosphere. 
It was the action and reaction of the spiritual character 
that made the drama. 

The battle between the two conflicting claims raged 
for some time, and it must be confessed that, on the 
outward and visible side, the race was to the swift 
and the battle to the strong, if one may estimate its 
results by latter-day exhibits. Yet it still remains, it 
must forever remain, that imaginative creation and 
the realm of spiritual reality have within themselves 
the permanent treasure, while the novel of outward 
detail is as easily forgotten as a last year's bird's nest. 

To a beginner in what might be designated literary 
journalism, all this vigorous discussion held a breathless 
interest. Macaulay acclaims the order of literature 
which has its source in the fullness of the mind rather 
than in the emptiness of the pocket; and there is 
always something to be said for those whose impulse 
in writing is that of having something to say. 

The Boston galaxy had a good deal to say, and they 
said it remarkably well. The genuine quality of life 
out of which their expression sprang invested the 
expression itself with the power of the "air-sown 
words" which Emerson ascribes to Swedenborg. The 
Boston group of writers were as distinct as a constel- 
lation in the heavens. The influence of this group 

[40] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

touched and ennobled the entire life of the country, 
and one of the leading channels by means of which 
their thought was more widely distributed was through 
press correspondence. Boston had always been a 
particularly happy hunting-ground for this work. 
Frank B. Sanborn's Boston letter to the Springfield 
Republican, continuing over a period of more than 
fifty years, and ending only with his death in 1917, 
was a salient feature of that admirable journal. For 
years the New York Tribune printed a series of grace- 
ful letters, written by Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton, 
signed only with the initials, "L. C. M.," in which the 
meetings of the Radical Club were discussed, and new 
books, the personalities of noted authors and lecturers, 
and the movements of the intellectual, the artistic, 
and the social world, were reflected. 

Throughout the great Middle West such press 
matter was read with avidity. Such letters were 
liable to be read aloud far and wide over the country, 
and the children of the household could hardly escape 
growing up with some knowledge of what Matthew 
Arnold well describes as the best that has been thought 
and said in the world. Such a feature of journalism 
is, at its best and when written by able and cultivated 
contributors, a liberal education in itself. Thus, the 
leading personalities of Boston became household 
names to a degree that would perhaps have surprised 
these interesting people. Any youth or maiden coming 
to Boston out of such homes was simply entering a 
city that he or she knew all about; one had the entire 
dramatis personae in one's imagination; only to be in 
the midst of it was to see the play mounted. 

[41] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

Inevitably press letters from Boston suggested them- 
selves to me. I had come into a sense of bewildering 
enchantment; no Peri at the gates of Paradise could 
have been more steeped in ecstasy than that in which 
I sauntered about Boston, feeling it encompass me 
as an atmosphere. The enchantment of Italy which 
was to encompass me round about some years later 
never exceeded this first rapture of Boston to me, — 
one that has never yet faded into the light of common 
day. All this personal interest it was an instinct to 
try to share with newspaper readers in the great 
Mississippi valley. So I sent a press letter to the 
Chicago Inter-Ocean which its editor, William Penn 
Nixon (later a friend whose memory I dearly treasure), 
returned to me saying they did not wish to increase 
expenses. Was that all? I thought. A mere matter 
of paying, or not paying, for what I ardently desired 
to send? What did I care for "payment"? I wanted 
to write! Why, indeed, should a ten-dollar-a-week 
capitalist bother about further sources of income? 
I replied to Mr. Nixon begging the privilege of writing 
for nothing. (It was granted.) For nothing? No, if 
any possible reader had a fraction of the enjoyment 
out of these letters that I had in writing them it 
was enough. But (even though I say it "as hadn't 
oughter") the letters made their place at the start. I 
was more or less snowed under by personal responses 
from strangers. Not that the work had any parti- 
cular claim save that it perhaps possessed a certain 
spontaneity, and as I had so recently been one of the 
newspaper readers in this region of our country, I 
endeavored to give my readers (if I had any) just the 

[42] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

kind of matter that I, myself, loved to read. I told 
them of Doctor Holmes, of Edward Everett Hale, 
of Mary A. Li verm ore, of Lucy Stone, and Julia 
Ward Howe. I told them of the great publishing 
houses and the books that were coming out. I en- 
deavored to picture the scenic effects, as well as the 
great spiritual impress, of the preaching of Phillips 
Brooks in Trinity. I gave them fragments of these 
wonderful sermons that I would write down while 
listening to the inspired speaker. I told them of Mrs. 
Howe's home, and the home life of some of the other 
immortals of which I was privileged to enjoy reverent 
glimpses. And it was not long before Mr. Nixon 
offered me the signal remuneration of five dollars a 
letter, which in time increased to four times that sum. 
Then I captured the New Orleans Times-Democrat 
(for which I had written gratuitously, somewhat, in 
my student days), and they paid me even thirty dollars 
a month. But money? It was a mere negligible 
factor. It did not occur to me that I had embarked 
on the stern project of earning a living. (I cannot 
say as much for my mental state in the present year 
of 1918.) But in that idyllic time I was simply doing 
the thing that I loved to do, and if it brought in pay- 
ment, well and good, and if it did not, I wanted to 
do it all the same. But of this trend of effort I shall 
venture to speak later on. 

Doctor Holmes remains, perhaps, the most unique 
as well as the most brilliant figure in Boston literary 
life. He united wit and profundity, speculative 
questioning and an anchorage of faith, imaginative 
vision with a miscroscopic power of observation. 

[43] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

His keenest wit was closely allied with pathos. While 
his poems are somewhat largely those of occasion, 
there are a proportion of others, creative alone, that are 
well worth keeping in enduring remembrance. 

Many readers connect the prose writings of Doctor 
Holmes chiefly with the "Breakfast Table" scintil- 
lations of the "Autocrat" and the "Poet," and the 
later volume, "Over the Teacups." But it was really 
in his stories, "Elsie Vernier" and "The Guardian 
Angel," that his more intimate vein of psychological 
speculation may best be traced. The relation between 
physical conditions and the spiritual man who, for the 
time being, must express himself through these con- 
ditions, engaged his mind both as physician and 
metaphysician. "I talk, not to tell what I think, 
but to find out what I think," the Autocrat would 
say; and this suggests the discursive quality of his 
conversation. It was rather an experimental exami- 
nation of his mental possessions. 

One afternoon in his library comes to my memory, 
when he spoke at length on the problems and the 
destiny of life. His mind was many-faceted, and 
singularly penetrating into psychological possibilities 
and combinations, and in personal conversations he 
sometimes went deeply into the questioning of mental 
states. On this afternoon he told me a little incident 
that took place in his country house by the sea. At 
dinner, he had chanced to recall the "Webster and 
Parkman" tragedy of Harvard University that had 
taken place in his own early life, and he related the 
details to some friends who were with him. Later, 
on returning to the drawing-room, he found an English 

[44] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

paper in his evening mail, sent him by a friend in 
London, in which this entire story was given. 

"Now," said Doctor Holmes, "was it that this 
paper lying on my table in some way communicated 
to me a wave of vibration that recalled the story; or 
did I, clairvoyantly and unconsciously to my normal 
self, see this paper as it lay in the next room? Or did 
a third person, some one in the Unseen, intervene, 
and suggest it to me?" 

Asking as to which one of these hypotheses he 
inclined, he replied that he did not fix on any one. 
"I state facts; I simply state the facts," he said; 
"I like to revel among all sorts of possibilities." 

During this visit the Autocrat invited his caller 
into another room to see the famous portrait of "Doro- 
thy Q." with the saber cut across the canvas. Writing 
of this visit and somewhat of his conversation in a 
press letter, I sent him a copy, in response to which 
he thus wrote: 

296, Beacon Street, 

Nov. 27, 1891. 

My Dear Miss Whiting: 

How can I help being pleased with your article 
about me? ... I can stand a little overpraise; it 
never disagrees with me to any serious extent; but 
apart from that, there is a delicate handling of your 
subject that made me feel as if I were in caressing 
arms. I have very rarely had anything said about 
me so gracefully and pleasingly. 

Faithfully and Gratefully 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 

[45] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

The ministry of Edward Everett Hale still persists, 
even though he has passed from the visible world, 
for his wide relation to the general life and his unique 
and vigorous personality leave their impress. As 
clergyman, author, lecturer, reformer, his work in- 
cluded almost every variety of expression. So much 
does Doctor Hale seem a part of the life of to-day 
that to see his church habitually referred to in the 
local press, as "Doctor Hale's church" surprises no 
one. Though not a poet, he wrote occasional verse 
of value. As a writer of short stories he had a genuine 
gift; and two of these, at least, "The Man without 
a Country" and "My Double and How he Undid 
Me," have become classics in American fiction. The 
spiritual vitality that he radiated to the general life 
through that wonderful organization, the "Lend a 
Hand Club," and, also, the" Ten Times One Is Ten," 
is, indeed, a force that persists like the waves in 
the ether. "I always knew God loved me; I know 
He cares for me," Doctor Hale would say; and how 
could one lean on a more reassuring faith ? 

Kate Field wrote me at one time to inquire if Doctor 
Hale were a prohibitionist. On writing to him, the 
following amusing letter came in reply. It was dated 
from his home in Roxbury (39 Highland Street), 
December 17, 1888, and thus ran: 

For many years after we began housekeeping I 
had not a wine-glass in our house, and I do not know 
that there is one now. This will represent my feeling 
in the matter. I think it is necessary to drink wine 
sometimes. I am ordered to, myself, by my medical 
adviser. But I do not think it necessary to present 
it to my guests as an elegance, with every fascination 

[46] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

that art, poetry, and literature can give to it. I do 
not offer sherry or champagne to my guests any more 
than I offer them quinine or paregoric. If they need 
either, I should hope they would ask me, and I should 
try to provide them as well as I could; but I should 
not make this a matter of hospitality. You may 
send this note to Miss Field. 

Doctor Hale was regarded as the special patron 
saint of every conceivable enterprise, social, philan- 
thropic, literary, economic, or whatever it might be. 
His doorbell rang from morning till night, and life rose 
to high tide at his door. His buoyant nature and un- 
failing humor saved him from being fairly borne 
down by the multiplicity of the demands on him; 
and he had a singular gift of galvanizing other people 
into work and enabling them to get the most out of 
a day. The inner secret of his own perpetual activity 
might not incorrectly be traced to his simple and 
absolute faith. He accomplished his enormous and 
greatly varied work by adhering to the plan of giving 
himself for three or four hours a day to the utmost 
concentration of activities, and then leaving the 
matter in hand till the next day; for he held that social 
and neighborly duties were as important as any specific 
task. So it was that his life became a real vital force 
rather than merely standing for any specific achieve- 
ment alone. It became the "power of an endless 
life." He was a spiritual dynamo, generating the 
energy that he used. 

Not an avowed transcendentalist, Doctor Hale was 
still intensely in sympathy with Emerson, and his 
little book on the Concord seer has always seemed to 

[47] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

me among the finest and most penetrating inter- 
pretations of Emerson's thought that has been given. 
In his "James Russell Lowell and His Friends" is 
one of the most vivid and racy chapters about Boston 
life. Mrs. Livermore delighted in this book, and a 
letter that she wrote me referring to it runs thus: 

I have been reading "James Russell Lowell and 
his Friends" by Doctor Hale. I have found two 
items there of curious interest, one of which is Doctor 
Hale's question: "Have any of the scribes and phari- 
sees known that President Quincy of Harvard (in the 
'30s of the last century) believed himself directed, as 
Socrates was, by a 'daemon', or guardian spirit?" 
Quincy believed he was guided in his marriage, which 
was a very happy one, and in all the important measures 
and crises of his life, by this attendant spirit whose 
promptings he always obeyed. I remember President 
Quincy well, and attended class-days and commence- 
ments under his administration. He was a leader of 
men in those days. 

The other item relates to Lowell, who believed 
himself gifted with what is called second-sight. Lowell 
said he had only to shut his eyes, and he could see all 
the people whom he had known, or whom he wanted 
to see, and could carry on conversations with them. 
Lowell's mother was of the same family in Hebrides 
as that to which Minna Troil belonged, in Scott's 
novel of "The Pirate." I do not find it difficult to 
believe that he inherited a strain of occultism from 
his mother. We should never have heard of these 
but for Doctor Hale's delightful book. 

Doctor Hale was among the guests frequently met 
at Mrs. Whipple's Sunday evenings. Mr. Lowell, 
who was representing his country at the Court of St. 
James in those years, always found an evening for the 

[48] 




MARY ASHTON (RICE) LIVERMORE 
From a photograph 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

Whipples when he visited Boston; and among others 
there might be James Freeman Clarke, Mrs. Howe, 
Mr. Alcott, and his daughter Louisa, who was a great 
favorite with the Whipples; Mrs. Moulton, Mrs. 
Spofford, Anne Whitney, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, 
Colonel Higginson, Charles Eliot Norton, Mrs. Diaz, 
Mrs. Livermore, and occasionally Mr. Whittier. 

Such people as these did not require hired performers 
to entertain them. The conversation, sometimes gen- 
eral, sometimes that of groups drawn together by 
some affinity of nature or temperament, was of the 
nature of joyous social intercourse between people 
who had something to say or to discuss with each other. 
One was always liable to hear the brilliant, the signifi- 
cant, the inspirationally suggestive; there was charm, 
wit, repartee; there was sometimes music, and in the 
late evening appeared a maid with ice creams, cake, 
coffee, some simple refreshments, of which the great 
people partook with quite the zest of ordinary mortals. 
Mrs. Whipple was a wonderful hostess. She made of 
entertaining a fine art. She had an extraordinary 
penetration, insight, sympathy; fairly a divination, 
indeed, of human nature, which made her practically 
unerring in social life. She was not of the order of 
hostesses who merely "warmed, fed, and lighted" 
their guests. She went, by some divine alchemy of 
her own, straight as light to the imprisoned splendor, 
bringing it into response and manifestation. To one 
unimportant guest, it was a liberal education to be 
permitted the delight of these evenings. It fell among 
my own undeserved privileges to see much of the 
familiar household life of the Whipples; if it seemed 

[49] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

too beautiful to believe, yet I would wake up to find 
it true. 

Mrs. Mary Hemenway, one of the greatest of Boston 
women, whose hand was on many of the most im- 
portant activities of the city, was a frequent guest 
and one of the nearest and lifelong friends of Mrs. 
Whipple. It was Mrs. Hemenway who organized 
the movement for saving the "Old South" church with 
its historic associations; it was she who discerned 
John Fiske's latent but marvellous power as a lecturer, 
and discovered him to himself, if one may so phrase 
it, by insisting that he should prepare and deliver two 
historical lectures at a time when he had not dreamed 
of ever appearing on the platform. The result more 
than justified Mrs. Hemenway's insight, and it was 
thus that his brilliant career as a speaker was in- 
augurated. 

In the diary of "Old Pepys" he records, after an 
evening passed in the great world, "But, O Lord! 
what poor stuff they did talk!" No guest of Mr. and 
Mrs. Whipple could have made that reflection. The 
social ideal here was not gregarious, but selective. 
Conversation became a real exchange of thought and 
sympathy. 

Mr. Whipple was one of the brilliant wits of Boston 
with the corresponding sensitive response of nature. 
To a considerable degree Mrs. Whipple was the power 
behind the throne in her husband's work as the leading 
critical essayist of the time. Often at the table Mrs. 
Whipple would say to her husband, "Edwin, why 
don't you write on So-and-So?" Then she would pro- 
ceed to discuss the topic, hold it up to the light, and 

' [50] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

examine it on all sides, and it would have been a duller 
man than Edwin Percy Whipple who would not have 
caught some thread of inspiration from her luminous 
words. Mrs. Whipple could not herself have written 
these almost faultless essays and lectures which Mr. 
Whipple delivered before the lyceum courses; but it 
is a question if he could have produced matter so able 
without the help of this magic power of suggestion 
that characterized his wife. It is difficult to find 
words to define adequately Mrs. Whipple's gift, which 
was a sort of X-ray divination of the special possi- 
bilities of those with whom she came in sympathetic 
contact. Of Mr. Whipple's lectures, Mrs. Livermore, 
who remembered them well, thus spoke in one of the 
long series of letters which it was my happiness to 
receive from her during the latter years of her life: 

Not enough has ever been told the world concerning 
Whipple. After Wendell Phillips he was easily the 
most attractive lecturer in the great lyceum courses 
of the past. . . . There was a class of young people 
at the time who were bewitched by Whipple, and 
would come from a lecture given by him with pages of 
notes which afterward were fully written out. I 
spent a night once with friends who had entertained 
him, and on this occasion after his lecture we sat till 
midnight around the dining-room table over a light 
supper, discussing the theme with him. 

Governor and Mrs. Claflin gave a reception for Mr. 
Whittier, inviting the survivors of the anti-slavery 
conflict to meet him, with a few other guests. Chanc- 
ing to meet Mrs. Claflin at Mrs. Howe's one morning, 
I was listening with intense interest to what she was 
saying to her hostess of this forthcoming festivity, 

[51] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

when she turned to me and said, "Would you 
like to come?" The reply was that I should in- 
deed feel like a mortal gazing on the immortals, and 
the privilege would be a great one. So with her 
characteristic kindness, Mrs. Claflin invited Alice 
Stone Blackwell and myself to "look on the immortals" 
that memorable day. It was my own first meeting 
with Mr. Whittier, and I have never lost my impression 
of his gentle sweetness of manner. Lucy Stone and 
her husband, Doctor Henry B. Blackwell; Mrs. 
Howe, Miss Anne Whitney, Colonel Higginson, Mrs. 
Livermore, Mrs. Diaz, and also Elizabeth Stuart 
Phelps were among the guests; although Miss Phelps 
could not have been among the early reformers, but 
was apparently invited on general principles and as 
a household favorite. During the afternoon they all 
formed a circle around the piano and sang Mrs. Howe's 
"Battle Hymn," Miss Phelps, in a white gown, stand- 
ing unconsciously in the center, looking like a tall 
white lily. A few of the guests remained to a little 
evening supper to which Mrs. Claflin kindly invited 
me, and I thus saw a pretty instance of Mr. Whittier's 
felicitous skill in response. It seems that he had 
deprecated the giving of a reception in his honor with 
some expression that no one would come; and as he 
sat on her right at the supper table, Mrs. Claflin said 
playfully, "No one wanted to come, you said?" and 
Mr. Whittier replied, "But every one would want to 
come to see thee ! " 

Mrs. Diaz, by whose side I found myself, said, 
"I have come up to town for the winter and brought 
the only two things that I need, — a long-trained silk 

[52] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

dress and a matchbox." The occasion suggested 
anti-slavery reminiscences, and I recall that Mrs. 
Diaz also told me, that night, how, as a child, she 
voluntarily went without butter that she might con- 
tribute "six cents a week to the anti-slavery cause." 
But this sacrifice, the silk gown, and the matchbox, 
all seem equally to pervade my memory. 

Throughout all those years there was one potent 
factor in Boston life that radiated an influence as 
ennobling as it was exalted, — the influence of Phillips 
Brooks. By some magic he seemed to create a mag- 
netic union between the inner and the outer life; to 
lead his hearers to an earnest desire to adjust their 
general conduct in harmony with spiritual laws. 
"Come, live in the spirit" was his typical message. 
"That is the only life. Not a life of sacrifice and 
sadness and seclusion; on the contrary, the life of the 
spirit is that of all fullness of purpose, all gladness and 
joy, all greatness of achievement. Do not forsake 
your business, your profession, your calling; but be 
by so much the better merchant, engineer, lawyer. 
Christian manhood is only manhood developed to its 
highest capacity. Manhood has not even attained 
its normal possibilities until it is Christian manhood." 
This was the spirit in which he made abstract truth 
vital with the glory and the freshness of a new inter- 
pretation. 

As rector of Trinity, the work of Phillips Brooks 
was never bounded by the limits of the parish. Nor 
can his ministry ever be claimed exclusively by the 
Episcopal church, for it pervaded the deeper regions 
of life and thought where varying opinions meet on the 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

common basis of the universal. The catholicity of 
Phillips Brooks was a force that contributed greatly to 
the molding of contemporary progress. His eloquence, 
his fervor, his all-pervading spirituality made his faith 
in the divine element in man something singularly 
communicable. His majestic figure was familiar to 
all the city, and a chance contact with him on the 
streets often transposed one's life to a higher key. 
For, in the last analysis, it is what a man is, even more 
than what he says, that radiates helpfulness. 

"Thou knowest not what argument 
Thy life to thy neighbor's creed hath lent." 

The afternoon services in Trinity were apt to be 
rather largely attended by a congregation who were not 
communicants of the church. The message of the 
preacher was delivered with a magnetism that made its 
appeal so vital as not infrequently to inaugurate for 
the hearer an absolutely new epoch in his life. The 
glowing earnestness of his face; the little mannerism 
of his hand clutching his robe which was characteristic 
of his most inspired speech, and the rich color of the 
sunset gleaming through the painted windows made 
a picture never to be lost from memory. Spiritual 
force is the supreme potency of the universe, and from 
the life of Bishop Brooks was struck that spark that 
ignited innumerable watchfires. "The spiritual power 
which he received from a hidden source he has trans- 
mitted to the world," said Charles Gordon Ames of 
him after his death, "and that power is here to stay." 

The universe itself belonged to Phillips Brooks. 
He took life easily with simple and spontaneous enjoy- 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

merit. After his elevation to the Episcopate, it was 
especially urged upon him that he must have those 
office hours, which, as rector of Trinity, he had evaded, 
as something too formal and too suggestive of mech- 
anism. "No, I am not willing to have office hours," 
he replied; "if people wish to see me I must and will 
see them at any time." 

It was further urged upon him that the almost 
countless calls from those who desired his sympathy, 
his counsel, his aid, were too great a tax upon him, 
and to this suggestion he vehemently replied, "God 
save the day when they won't come to me!" He was 
fairly snowed under by an enormous correspondence, 
a large proportion of which was from persons outside 
his religious faith, and who had never seen his face. 
This mattered not at all. His meat was to do the 
will of his Father who sent him. Every letter, note, 
request, however ill-timed, received its adequate reply 
in his clear, concise hand, every word being the expres- 
sion of his beautiful courtesy. 

The Brooks family consisted of six sons, of whom 
four took orders in the Episcopal ministry. The 
atmosphere of this home had been preeminently that 
of spirituality and trust. Each day was opened and 
closed with family prayer. A picture is still preserved 
of the evenings when parents and children gathered 
around a large table — the father perhaps writing; 
the mother with her sewing basket; the boys with their 
lessons. Sometimes the father read aloud from his- 
torians, poets, essayists. Phillips Brooks was, from 
his boyhood, especially interested in biography, as 
that is the form of literature, when rising to its ideal 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

possibilities, that most intimately interprets the art 
of living. And it was in life, personal life, that he was 
supremely interested. But to him side by side with 
biography was poetry. He was himself tempera- 
mentally endowed with the inner and intuitive 
recognition of poetic thought that found expression 
in his own occasional verse, and which rose to a high 
poetic quality in the lyric, "O Little Town of Bethle- 
hem," which has become a world favorite. All these 
more ardent and spiritualized expressions of his later 
life were generated in this atmosphere of his boyhood. 
The Brooks household was, in the truest sense, a home. 
For a household only becomes a home when it is nur- 
tured and fed on spiritual ideals. The intellectual 
possibilities of all these six lads was constantly stimu- 
lated and strengthened by the high order of reading 
that was a daily feature of the family life. Conver- 
sation was one of the enjoyments, and the boys were 
encouraged to discuss the books that were read, the 
ideas that were in the air. Cheerful laughter and fun, 
personal likes or dislikes, individual points of view, — 
all this range of natural expression was encouraged 
among the lads, and the atmosphere became one of 
continual intellectual and moral stimulus. 

The friendship between Edward Everett Hale and 
Phillips Brooks had been a notable feature in the lives 
of both men. When the rector of Trinity became the 
bishop of the diocese, Doctor Hale wrote to him, 
begging that he would not overtax his strength. "I 
am older than you; can advise you," said Doctor Hale. 
"Begin slowly." The counsel was apparently un- 
heeded, for the bishop gave himself unreservedly, 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

almost as if he had some undefined prescience that 
only a brief time remained to him on earth. If he 
were asked to speak in a country schoolhouse, he met 
the request if it were possible for him to do so. The 
fact that the people wished to hear him was enough. 
At one time an aged minister of some denomination 
other than Episcopal wrote to Bishop Brooks from 
the Middle West, explaining that his congregation 
was giving him a trip to Europe on account of ill 
health, and asking if, when he passed through Boston, 
he might hope to meet the Bishop? The reply was an 
invitation to be the bishop's guest while in Boston; 
and finding that he was feeble and old, Phillips Brooks 
went with him to New York and saw him off on his 
steamer. Numberless instances of which this is typical 
might be told of this man who, indeed, was truly one 
who came on earth not to be ministered unto, but to 
minister. The distinctive quality that best defines 
the life of Phillips Brooks was his power of relating 
the divinest conceptions of social relationships to the 
ordinary occurrences of daily life. 

"Not he that repeateth the Name 
But he that doeth the Will." 

In the ministry that followed that of Phillips Brooks, 
the rectorship of Reverend E. Winchester Donald, 
D.D., Trinity was most fortunate. Essentially was 
he the King's Cup-bearer. Doctor Donald was not 
less a remarkable personality, in another way, than his 
distinguished predecessor. The beauty of his voice, 
the notable quality of his sermons, and more than all 
beside, his tender and faithful friendship, his unfalter- 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

ing devotion to all that makes for the Christian and 
the consecrated life, invest his memory with affection 
and reverence. He had an enthusiasm for what he 
well called the expansion of religion; "Bring all that 
you gain from all the myriad of ethical sources, — ■ 
Theosophy, Psychical Research, New Thought, Chris- 
tian Science, — whatever may be, bring it all into the 
church," he would say. "She is large, she has room for 
all." Like Phillips Brooks, who declared with a 
twinkle in his eye that he did not consider it necessary 
to found a new religion every time he got a new idea, 
Doctor Donald, too, believed that every truth of 
importance may well be incorporated into the teach- 
ings and the convictions of the Church. 

Again has Trinity Church been blessed with a 
ministry to whose power and whose untiring zeal for 
all that makes for righteousness it would be impossible 
to offer too great appreciation. In the Reverend 
Alexander Mann, D.D., Trinity has found a leader 
with a genius for organization, whose simple and 
direct teachings of the Christ life are of a singularly 
penetrating and impressive nature, incorporating them- 
selves into character and action. As one of the ablest 
interpreters of the spiritual truth of the Bible, with 
an exhaustive knowledge of its history, Doctor Mann is 
exceptional. The scholarly beauty and the noble 
quality of his discourses might not unprofitably be 
dwelt upon; but even more than these do his parishion- 
ers and his congregation prize that unwearied devotion, 
by means of which he has so enlarged and strength- 
ened the institutional and humanitarian side of the 
church work, increasing its constructive power to 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

reach out in numerous and varied forms of helpfulness 
for the betterment of the community. In the first 
sermon that Doctor Mann preached after accepting 
the unanimous and enthusiastic call to the rectorship, 
he said; "Worry is lack of faith in God." The sim- 
plicity of the words is only equalled by their signal 
aid. To one hearer, at least, the thought entered into 
the inner life as an unfailing spring of renewed courage 
and trust in the Divine Power. 

Among the famous men who were heard from the 
platform of the Lowell Institute in those years were 
Alfred Russel Wallace, Lanciani (Commendatore della 
Corona d'ltalia), then directing the archaeological 
work in the forum in Rome; Sir William Dawson, 
Protap Chunder Mozoomdar, Prince Wolskonsky, 
Edward A. Freeman, Thomas Davidson, William 
James, Luigi Monti, Henry Drummond, Augustus Le 
Plongeon, Barrett Wendell, William T. Sedgwick, 
and Percival Lowell. Some of these were not heard 
until the twentieth century and no exact chronology 
is attempted in the mere resume of these important 
lecture courses. 

Almost every subject of importance in science, 
literature, art, ethics, economics, archaeology, with 
past and contemporary history, were discussed on the 
Lowell Institute platform. All these were a part of 
the intellectual activity of the time. It was a complex 
and a many-sided activity that contributed to feed the 
currents of energy that were in evidence, even setting 
then, toward the great purpose of social reconstruc- 
tion. All the latter years of the nineteenth century are 
stamped with the regenerative processes, with the pro- 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

duction of that order of force which inevitably results 
from the meeting of two generations, one of which 
is not past its intellectual prime, and the other of 
which has fully entered upon its youthful maturity 
of intellectual vigor. Professor Royce was in the 
zenith of his power; Doctor William James was lead- 
ing in psychology, seeing "in the life of the soul, a still 
more mysterious and fascinating spectacle," as F^ur- 
noy so well says of him; and John Fiske, with profound 
knowledge and philosophic insight "all harmoniously 
unified into a lovable and richly-endowed personality," 
to use the words of his biographer, John Spencer Clark, 
was entering on his great interpretation of social and 
political history, a task cut short by his death. 

Of such star dust as these important personalities 
and activities of Boston was a long series of press 
letters woven, for which the Inter-Ocean of Chicago 
(founded by that valiant spirit, William Penn Nixon) 
and the Times-Democrat of New Orleans offered their 
hospitalities over many years. In this press corre- 
spondence it was my aim (however illy fulfilled) to 
make myself the interpreter of as much of the best of 
life, in literary, artistic, ethical, and social phases, 
as was possible. 

The topics treated were selective; the correspond- 
ence was not so much Boston letters as it was letters 
written in Boston. There were no instructions or 
limitations from my editors, save, indeed, an occa- 
sional counsel to be "less enthusiastic." It is an order 
of counsel that (to make a frank confession) I have 
continued to receive from my various "Chiefs," 
editors and publishers, all my life; and that it has 

[60] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

not done its work more effectually is no fault of theirs, 
or due to any deficiency in their vigilance in casti- 
gations. Life is inevitably seen through a tempera- 
ment, and if it presents itself with a vividness and 
beauty that sometimes transforms it into the regions 
celestial, what is one to do? At all events, my aim 
was to draw from the choice quality of this life where, 
indeed, we might all say: 

"The Fairest enchants me; 
The Mighty commands me." 

These letters, which persisted from the middle eight- 
ies to the years well within the first decade of the 
twentieth century, were not duplicated, but each was 
as individual as are personal letters to friends; and 
beside the two permanent channels, there were others 
contributed here and there on special occasions. 
They were written in a sort of rapturous delight that 
doubtless invested the writer rather than the reader; 
but the readers were often responsive and encouraging, 
and countless letters rained down from strangers who 
came to seem as friends instead. Kindly comment 
on these letters was not infrequent, as for instance 
such a paragraph as the following from a writer in a 
New York journal: 

There is no form of Miss Whiting's work, however, 
to which she is more devoted than that of press cor- 
respondence. Mr. R. S. Rogers, of Wisconsin, wrote 
in a journal published in that State of Miss Whiting's 
weekly Boston letters to the Chicago Inter-Ocean, 
saying: All of Miss Whiting's writings are inspiring, 
uplifting. We imbibe spirituality from them as the 
bee sips honey from the flower. Each week she writes 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

a letter for the Inter-Ocean, which appears in its 
Saturday issue, and which contains the latest news 
(not gossip) from the "Hub," embodying terse but 
appreciative criticisms of literature, the drama, opera, 
the Lowell Institute lectures, — in fact, everything 
that contributes to the higher life. And all this is 
given us in a language so elegant and poetic, a tone 
so elevated, and an interpretation so spiritual, that 
the reading thereof is a liberal education. 

Miss Whiting also acquaints us, in these letters, 
with the latest theories and discoveries in psychology 
bearing upon matters of present interest. She is one 
of the clearest and most interesting exponents of this 
new spiritualism. She is a resident of Boston. She 
is a student in various ways, and is also the happy 
possessor of information regarding various subjects. 
She is literary to the tips of her fingers, and her signa- 
ture to an article is a guarantee that it is interesting, 
instructive, and elevating. 

Whatever generous encouragement came was due 
to the intention rather than to the performance; 
but it all made for me a kind of twofold life, — any 
privilege of social or artistic enjoyment being doubled 
because of the hope of passing some gleam of it on 
to the newspaper readers. New Orleans became a 
center of kind friends, and in 1897, under the presi- 
dency of Mrs. Helen L. Behrens, was formed a "Lilian 
Whiting Club." The name was a mere convenience, 
but the club itself was the expression of their appre- 
ciation of the lofty and noble personalities and im- 
portant work in ethics, literature, art, education, of 
the Boston people of whom it had been my privilege 
to write in my letters to the Times-Democrat of that 
city. The object of this club, as set forth in its con- 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

stitution, was "the mutual improvement of its members 
in literature, art, science, and cultivation of interest 
in the vital questions of the day." As such, it was 
really a kind of extension of the Boston life of the time, 
inspired by such women as Mrs. Howe, Madame 
Agassiz, Mrs. Livermore, and others whose work 
and thought I had endeavored to somewhat interpret. 
Meantime my local work had come to be that of 
literary editorship, the Traveler of that day being a 
family paper, semi-literary in tone, and bearing no 
resemblance to the pleasantly mercurial paper that 
perpetuates the name to-day. My little room at the 
office was provided with bookshelves that were always 
overcrowded with books that then rained down from 
the publishing houses. My Chief, true to his financial 
principles, never objected to any extra outlay if it 
secured something worth while. He looked with 
favor on the idea of ordering by cable an advance copy 
of Mrs. Ward's "Robert Elsmere," when it appeared, 
much trumpeted by advance notes in the English 
press; thus the first copy that was received in America 
was that thriftily ordered by the Traveler, and my 
review of nearly four columns was the first one that 
appeared in any American journal. Colonel Worthing- 
ton grudged nothing that he regarded as of real benefit 
to his paper, and his admirable judgment in business 
matters was not less valuable, as a rule, as to the world 
of letters. Contributing every day to the editorial 
columns; supplying from one to two columns of literary 
reviews each day with a larger installment on Satur- 
days; and making up the weekly Saturday literary 
supplement, — with the exception of one page devoted 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

to a notable "Review of the Week," ably penned by 
Mr. Hazeltine and perhaps the most popular and 
most important feature of the paper, — and sending 
out regular press correspondence each week filled the 
time with a most interesting and joyous order of occu- 
pations. 

Press correspondence, almost more than any other 
feature of journalism, affords a writer liberal scope for 
a certain order of service. Through these years my 
readers and myself were much indebted to the gener- 
ous courtesies of nearly all the leading publishers of 
Boston and New York, who fairly rained upon me 
their new books as they appeared, — aside from copies 
sent to the Traveler, — from all of which I drew for 
these press letters. To people who dwell more or less 
distant from the great centers, a resume of an important 
book may be next in value to the book itself. 

A Southern reader, whose strong point was not, 
apparently, literary chronology, wrote to me, saying: 
"How happy you must be to live in Boston and know 
Anne Hutchinson and Margaret Fuller!" Candor 
compels me to confess that there was some excuse 
for this confusion, for not infrequently it was the 
Boston of days I had never seen about which I wrote 
in these letters, people and scenes vividly pictured 
by some friend who had known them. The privileges 
of Mrs. Whipple's household in which I was an habitue; 
and many conversations with Mrs. Livermore and 
others of the elder generation often opened vistas 
into a past I had not personally known, but which 
often seemed ever more real than the outer life that I 
did know. 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

In any retrospective glance one may easily be led 
to wonder as to whether Maeterlinck is not quite right 
in considering the speculative contemplation of past, 
present, and future as really constituting "one im- 
mense present." Life is such a series of sequences 
that it is difficult, if not impossible, to view any single 
chapter of experience, or any event of import in one's 
life, as being isolated in itself. All these events are 
seen later to be part and parcel of the persistence of 
evolutionary progress. All that go to make up the 
complex thing we call life, — friendships, influences, 
experiences in every way, — become factors and 
reappear as fragments that complete each other in 
the mosaic of living. They come and go under various 
forms of expression and varying conditions; they 
transmute themselves into character and qualities. 



[65] 



Ill 

FIN DE SIECLE 

"Lo! now on the midnight the soul of the century passing, 
And on midnight the voice of the Lord! 

"In the years that shall be ye shall harness the Powers 
of the Ether 
And drive them with reins as a steed. 
Ye shall ride as a Power of the air, as a Force that is 
bridled, 
On a saddled Element leap. 

"In that day shall a man out of uttermost India whisper, 
And in England his friend shall hear." 

Stephen Phillips in "Midnight, 1900." 

THE Exposition in Chicago, in the summer of 1893, 
was evidence of the great advance in American 
life. The collections of foreign art; the new inventions 
of the hour; and the Congress of Religions, where 
nearly every faith was represented by a notable ex- 
pounder, — these and other valuable features, too 
numerous to be here specified, invested that summer 
with joy. Mrs. Potter Palmer, in her official presiding 
over various meetings and conventions, was a charm- 
ing figure, with that rare gift of perfect tact which 
springs from social culture and kindness of heart. 
Chicago was splendid with hospitalities. Every one 
kept open house and apparently open hearts, as well. 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

One house-party, given by Mrs. Lydia Avery 
Coonley (later Mrs. Ward), must always stand out in 
memory. For a week-end (in this most hospitable 
home) Mrs. Coonley had invited Harriet Hosmer, 
Swami Vivakananda, and myself; and on that Satur- 
day night we all adjourned after dinner to the music 
room, where a pipe organ built into the wall, a grand 
piano, a harp, and a violin testified to the musical 
taste of the hostess. It was the Swami's first appear- 
ance in this country, and his exposition of the Vedanta 
philosophy was of great interest. He began talking 
that evening, in the singularly musical voice and the 
fluency in English that characterized him; as it drew 
near midnight, Miss Hosmer sought her room; but the 
hostess and I sat entranced under that outpouring 
of eloquent discourse until four o'clock in the morning 
warned us that the dawn of Sunday was at hand. 
Outside the windows the lake tossed, and the fitful 
lights of boats and steamers danced over the surface. 
From the shrubbery that grew near the wall came 
now and then faint taps on the window panes, as the 
wind rose; and the night, within and without, was one 
to leave its impress. It was my privilege to hear 
Swami Vivakananda on many occasions afterward, 
both public, and at the Cambridge home of Mrs. Ole 
Bull, where he gave a series of talks; but no one of 
them ever seemed quite to equal the impassioned power 
of that evening. 

Mrs. Coonley was intensely interested in that great- 
est feature of the Exposition, the Parliament of Reli- 
gions. Herself one of the leading forces in Chicago, 
a woman whose enthusiasm for progress was joined 

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with a gift for social leadership; with a splendid 
balance of good sense, and swift judgment to discrimi- 
nate between the essential and the nonessential, her 
influence has always continued to be an asset of prog- 
ress. Possessing the poet's temperament, and a writer 
of verse herself, she has, too, the saving grace of 
recognizing the practicable as well as the desirable. 

No reminiscence of these days could formulate itself 
without reference to one of the kindest of friends who 
made possible for me much flitting about. Perhaps 
to some of us a railroad suggests only commercial 
utilities, the necessities rather than the luxuries and 
romance of life. But does not a railroad, or at least 
the privilege and liberation conferred by railroad 
passes, suggest the opening of new realms and the ex- 
tension of all one's happy experiences? It was Mr. 
J. R. Watson, for many years the General Passenger 
Agent of the Fitchburg Railroad (now merged into 
the Boston and Maine) who opened to me this possibil- 
ity of trips and travel, — not only on his own line, but 
in a way that would always, if one wished to visit 
Chicago, St. Louis, or similar destinations, stretch the 
magic carpet to include transportation to these, or 
even on to the picturesque and fascinating West. 

For many years the annual pass, arriving on New 
Year's Day, by the generous goodness of Mr. Watson, 
gave wings to life. The route of this railroad from 
Boston to Rotterdam Junction, New York, is espe- 
cially picturesque; indeed, all the Berkshire region of 
Massachusetts is one of scenic delight. Not content 
with that (to the recipient) ineffable blessing of the 
annual pass, Mr. Watson sometimes in the autumn, 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

when the landscape was steeped in rich colors, would 
send a little note, suggesting that the recipient of his 
annual pass should also invite an artist friend, or two, 
on a trip to the western part of the State. 

"Our people report that the autumn colors are in 
their perfection," he would write; "and if you would 
like to invite some friends we will pass you all out 
with pleasure." The charm of being able, any day, 
sans plan or premeditation, to go down to the North 
Station and embark on a flying train for the Deerfield 
region or even farther on to regions beyond the Hoosac 
Tunnel, was a privilege beyond description to one to 
whom motion, in any form, was the elixir of life. 

A letter of thanks for a copy of "The World Beauti- 
ful," one of many kind expressions from Mr. Watson, 
is invested with recollections that enshrine it among 
the precious things of life, — a visible token of one who, 
some years since, passed on to that land which his 
charming qualities, his life as a Christian gentleman, 
his consideration to employees and to all who touched 
his life so fitted him to enter. 

Colonel Higginson was one of the most delightful 
personalities in Boston. He was the president of the 
Browning Club and the founder and president of 
the "Round Table," a club that met once a month 
in private houses, the attendance limited to the mem- 
bers and invited guests. At each meeting a paper 
was read and discussed, with a social hour and refresh- 
ments following, the occasion standing out as a special 
grouping of the choice personalities of the time. 

Visitors of distinction in Boston were usually invited 
to a meeting of the "Round Table," and a little note 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

under date of December 10, 1894, from Frances Willard 
runs: 

. . . Why don't you come in to-day? Too 
stormy? I hope not. I shall be in all day, but this 
evening we go with Mrs. Elizabeth Stuart Phelps 
Ward, Mrs. James T. Fields, and Miss Anne "Whitney 
to the "Round Table" club. I am glad you are to 
be there, and we may exchange a word. . . . What a 
lovely book, and enclosure and note, dainty and 
Lilian-like! I love you. Till to-night (unless you 
can come to me to-day) 

Thy Sister 

Frances. 

One of the literary fraternity in New York speaks 
of "the note- writing Bostonians," a designation by no 
means inapplicable. Even among my own accumu- 
lation of papers I find masses of letters from friends 
and neighbors, close at hand; in fact, the proximity 
that makes possible a reply to a letter within a few 
hours rather stimulates than restrains correspondence. 
Mrs. Moulton and I used laughingly to speak of this, 
for when she was at her home in Boston, within ten 
minutes' walk, we seldom failed to write to each other 
nearly every day; but when she was in London, or on 
the continent, letters were less frequent. One of my 
numerous packages contains the letters of Miss Sarah 
Holland Adams, a sister of Mrs. James T. Fields, who 
had returned from a long residence abroad. Miss 
Adams was the translator of Professor Grimm's 
lectures on Goethe, which she heard delivered before 
the University of Berlin, and also of another col- 
lection of his essays on Emerson, Carlyle, and others. 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

In reference to a book that had just appeared from 
Louise Imogen Guiney, Miss Adams wrote: 

Strange, I had just said to a friend, "I must get 
Miss Guiney 's book," and you must have overheard 
me from the Ludlow to the Brunswick, for three 
minutes later you brought it to me. Miss Guiney 
has manifested her superiority — she is great — the 
chapter on the Tudors is a marvel of writing! Mr. 
Mifflin spoke to me of this book the other day. . . . 

... I can't tell you the rich enjoyment I've had in 
the Hawthorne book. Do you remember the letter my 
brother-in-law, James T. Fields, received from Mrs. 
Hawthorne after the death of her husband? She had 
a marvellous gift of expression, and Rose Lathrop has 
the gift of both her parents. . . . 

. . . Have you read Swinburne's wonderful poem 
on Nelson? It more than rivals Tennyson's on Well- 
ington, and it says to the English people, — Behold 
your true Poet Laureate! 

... I should love to read Percival Lowell's book; 
could you spare it just now? Pushkin's poems I 
know nothing of, — are they good? are they flashing 
and original? .... I mean to go on Thursday to 
hear Hopkinson Smith. They say in Cambridge 
that his lectures are the best of good talk. . . . 

. . . Miss Willard and Lady Henry Somerset 
sent me word that they would come to call on me 
this week. I intended inviting a few friends to meet 
them, but they prefer I should not. Both Lady 
Henry and Miss Willard prefer not to be largely 
introduced, they are so busy. One large reception 
must be lived through, Miss Willard writes, and they 
wish that to be the only one. My sister Annie thinks 
Lady Henry is charming. I dine with Annie to-day, 
and meet her for the first time and Anne Whitney will 
also be there, and Sarah Orne Jewett, who is staying 
with my sister. These will be all the guests; it is 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

quite informal. I hope to enjoy it, but you know 
Thackeray warns us not to depend upon accident. 
Even with the cleverest people conversation does not 
always run at its best. 

At that time Walter Damrosch was bringing out the 
opera of "The Scarlet Letter," George Parsons La- 
throp having composed the libretto from Hawthorne's 
immortal romance, and Mr. Damrosch himself writing 
the music. Madame Gadski sang the role of "Hester," 
and expressed much enthusiasm for the work, but as 
a matter of fact it did not succeed and was soon dropped 
from the repertoire. In response to an invitation 
to see this production, Miss Adams wrote me: 

.... How could I live through seeing "The 
Scarlet Letter?" I've always thought of it as a soul 
tragedy the angels gazed upon. Why can't a few 
things be left in the realm of the imagination? 

When the great Channing was preaching in Boston, 
Miss Adams was a girl in her teens, and she listened 
to his sermons with a notebook in her hands, according 
to the intellectual fashion of her day. In her later 
life she displayed piles of these trophies, rilled with the 
passages from his sermons that she had recorded. 
Theodore Parker and Emerson she also knew well, 
and to them she alluded in one of her letters, saying: 

"Whatever the future may have in store for the 
world, I am glad to have lived in the days of Parker 
and Emerson. Parker, desperate! Emerson, in- 
spirate!" 

Reverend Doctor Charles Gordon Ames, who suc- 
ceeded James Freeman Clarke as the pastor of the 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

Church of the Disciples, was another of these delight- 
ful writers of frequent notes. In one of these he said: 

. . . What a vernal equinox it is! And did you 
revel in the opera last night? . . . Did you ever try 
to make yourself believe that spiritual receptivity 
might dispense with rest, so that even in our life here 
there would be "no night?" I doubt whether we 
could hold such "abundant life" as to dispense with 
periods of repair. . . . But I didn't "go for" to write 
you so soon again except to make an acknowledgment 
for that dear little book, William Watson's poems, 
some of which I at once recognized as poems I had 
copied months ago, and it pleased me to see that 
nearly every one of these had been marked by your 
hand. The gladness of getting possession of your 
marked copy! Do you know how good a thing it 
would be for you (and for us!) if you would take a 
birdlike flight across the Common and alight at 12, 
Chestnut Street, some day, when you are not expecting 
to come, nor expected, giving yourself and us a surprise? 
And even if we all chanced to be out, it would make 
no great difference; you could walk into the study 
where you would be at home in just five seconds. If 
I could know in advance just when you could surprise 
us, I wouldn't miss it for a shilling! Just now it would 
not interrupt anything serious, for idleness is my 
leading industry. . . . 

Again Doctor Ames writes: 

... Of course you'll go off to London and illumi- 
nate its fogs, and we shall be bereaved. As to your 
writing of me as a representative Boston preacher 
before you had written of Edward Everett Hale, who 
has been much longer in the field and shone ten times 
as brightly, it would simply be your ruin ! I cannot be 
sorry for your kindly thoughts of me, but it is not 
easy to see upon what meat it feeds. Do come and 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

see us often before you go hence to be seen no more. 
. . . May I tell you that many years ago I made a 
resolution that whenever I was blamed I would ask 
myself how far I had given just occasion? and that 
whenever praised I would say, "Not unto us, O Lord, 
but unto Thy name be the glory!" To some degree 
I trust to have thereby escaped two kinds of harm. . . . 
I was born here in Dorchester; I went west at eighteen, 
and I have lived and roamed and preached in twenty 
States. 

In the memorial volume written of Doctor Ames 
by his daughter, Mrs. Alice Ames Winter, she includes 
this passage from his private notes : — 

I find little room for self-complacency and much 
for self-disapproval, but both are lost in the stronger 
feeling of gratitude. Without wishing to live my 
life over again, I am content to guide it now by the 
sober lights of the past, and the grander possibilities 
of the future, and am sometimes more deeply content 
to shut my eyes to both past and future and abandon 
all to the strong, safe, kind Hand which has ever led 
me by paths I could not foresee, unanxious, unafraid. 

The words are their own revelation of the beautiful 
spirit of Doctor Ames. 

Anne Whitney, poet and sculptor, was a notable 
character, of those days. My own first remembrance 
of her was in meeting at Mrs. Claflin's a lady with 
classic features and snow-white hair in curls, costumed 
in stately black velvet and rich laces, a woman to 
inspire attention anywhere, and to whom it was an 
honor to be presented. Her manner was rather 
formal and stately ; but it could not conceal her kind- 
ness of heart and the absolutely ardent temperament 

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beneath of the poet and the artist. She was a woman 
who united the gifts of the reformer and the artist. 
But to be a poet and an artist as well makes a connect- 
ing link; for the poet is perforce a spiritual idealist, 
and is concerned with life as well as with art. Miss 
Whitney affiliated with all the reformers; she had 
been one of the early abolitionists, a youthful follower 
of Garrison and Wendell Phillips; she was closely 
identified with Lucy Stone in advocating the political 
enfranchisement of women; she was a close friend and 
ardent sympathizer with Frances Willard and Mary A. 
Livermore in the work of the Woman's Christian 
Temperance Union. Miss Whitney was never a public 
speaker, but she frequently sat on the platform at the 
public meetings on temperance, woman suffrage, 
social economics, and the various other "causes" in 
which Boston abounded, and no more decorative 
figure on these platforms could have been desired than 
this lady who looked like the goddess Athena. Several 
of her statues are in and around Boston: that of 
Samuel Adams, the ideal creation of Leif Ericson, and 
that of Harriet Martineau at Wellesley College. She 
was an eminent conversationalist. One night comes 
back' 'to me when she had invited Mrs. Moulton, 
Anna Eichberg King (now Mrs. John Lane, the wife 
of the London publisher), and myself to dine, and the 
talk turned on Stephen Phillips, then a comparatively 
new poet. Miss Whitney discerned at once his gift 
for tragedy, although at that time only a volume of 
his lyrics had appeared, and unerringly, prophesied 
much that his later work has fulfilled. 

From the days of Harriet Hosmer to Emma Ben- 
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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

nett, Boston has had a succession of women sculptors 
whose art has been distinctive. The work of Anne 
Whitney holds recognized though not high place; 
Theo Kitson, with genuine creative talent, has pro- 
duced work that bears the tests of the later criticism; 
but Mrs. Bennett brings a new element into the plastic 
art, one of lofty idealism, classic beauty, and an* 
instinctive power in modeling whose results are 
recognized by critical authorities. She has had the 
advantage of years of assimilated study abroad. 
Much of Mrs. Bennett's life has been passed in Rome 
and Paris. She has lingered long and late in the 
superb galleries of the Vatican, unconsciously absorbing 
rather than consciously studying the art that enthralled 
her. In Athens she has entered deeply into the very 
spirit of Greece. She has been receptive to the virility 
of Rodin without losing her innate sense of absolute 
beauty and ideal grace. In the exhibition of the 
Architectural League in New York, in 1918, Mrs. 
Bennett showed several works, among which was 
a fountain (for her own grounds) in the design of a 
nymph, a figure that received unusual recognition for 
a singular blending of the classic spirit with an energy, 
an upspringing sense of motion and life, that is a fairly 
new note in sculpture. The war having closed Europe 
to Mr. and Mrs. Bennett, they have, by some nec- 
romancy of Mrs. Bennett's art, brought the Italian 
atmosphere into their beautiful Villa d'Amicenza near 
Boston, in whose salons one might easily fancy 
himself in Florence. With old Italian pictures, Floren- 
tine mirrors, and Venetian carvings; with tapestries 
and upholsteries, the villa weaves its spell of enchant- 

[76] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

ment. The Art Institute of Chicago has conferred 
a gratifying recognition on some of Mrs. Bennett's 
works that have there been exhibited. She embodies 
the spirit of the mountain wind, she surprises the 
secrets of nymph and naiad; and with all her magic 
for ideal creation, Mrs. Bennett achieves a realism 
in her portrait busts that is singularly faithful to life 
itself, yet life always more true because seen in its 
idealization. 

Boston had a notable group of Irish poets in John 
Boyle O'Reilly, Mary Elizabeth Blake, James Jeffrey 
Roche, Katherine Eleanor Conway, and Louise Imogen 
Guiney. The youngest, and subsequently to become 
the most famous of this group, Miss Guiney, has been 
wittily characterized by Katherine Tynan Hinkson 
as "accidentally American, essentially English of Ox- 
ford, with a dash of Irish." Miss Guiney 's temper- 
amental affiliations with Oxford, indeed, and her 
equally evident affiliations with Elizabethan literature 
ought to point her out as a shining mark to our friends, 
the believers in reincarnation, as a proof in point of 
their cherished theory. At all events these affiliations 
and attractions have lured Miss Guiney to England 
where she makes her permanent home, and her brilliant 
genius is recognized on both sides the ocean. In her 
latest visit to Boston she gave me the pleasure of being 
my guest at lunch, one day, when I related to her a 
touching little incident connected with the magazine 
publication of her poem entitled, "His Angel to His 
Mother," which had then recently appeared. The 
refrain of each stanza is: 

"Sweet, if you love him, let him go!" 
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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

It had come with the force of a personal message to 
a bereaved family under circumstances of peculiar 
trial, who (as strangers) had chanced to come to see 
me, and to speak of this poem which to them was so 
deeply significant. 

Boyle O'Reilly was a poet of royal soul. He was 
gifted with that charm of personality that is univer- 
sally felt, and as the president of the Papyrus Club, 
surrounded by the wit and genius of authors, artists, 
and scholars, he was not more delightful than in his 
professional and business associations. He had that 
large relatedness to life that communicated itself to 
every one with whom he came into even casual con- 
tact. Men and women of genius and culture found 
in him the most delightful of companions; nor could 
any person be so obscure, or even degraded, as to be 
outside the radius of his sympathies and aid. With 
lovely Mary E. Blake and Katherine Conway I first 
read the early poems of Katherine Tynan, enchanted 
with the exquisite color, pathos and tenderness of 
her "Louise de la Valliere." Since those days Miss 
Conway has received the distinguished recognition 
of a Chair in Notre Dame, Indiana, and of a decoration 
and personal message from His Holiness, Pope Pius X. 

All through these years and increasingly until his 
death in 1910, the lectures and books and the personal 
contacts with William James were perhaps, all in all, 
the most notable events in any philosophic or psycho- 
logical advance. In his home he was universally 
regarded first of all as the friend; for his genius for 
friendship and sympathetic social relations rivaled 
his genius as the eminent psychologist who fairly 

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transformed psychology by his marvelous perceptions 
of time, space, and reality. Well did Professor Royce 
characterize James as "the interpreter of the ethical 
spirit of his time." 

Another great and constructive interpreter of ethics, 
happily still in the zenith of his work, a noble and 
convincing voice that has never failed to make for 
righteousness and for the higher ideals of daily life 
is that of Reverend George A. Gordon, D.D., who 
has long been recognized as one of the most profound 
thinkers of the country. His books have aided in 
extending his message to other lands and peoples; 
and his parish, dating from the seventeenth century, 
is a notable Boston landmark. 

Boston still lays some claim to Mr. Howells, whose 
best novels have been those whose characters are 
typical of the Boston life that he first knew in the 
mid-nineteenth century. The youth of Mr. Howells 
illustrates Emerson's assertion that to give a young 
man manners and accomplishments insures the open- 
ing of the golden portal; that he "need not be at the 
trouble of earning palaces and fortunes, — they would 
open of themselves and entreat him to enter." When 
he first came, a wandering minstrel of twenty-three, 
to Boston, Mr. Lowell humorously sent him to Emerson 
with a note that ran: "This young man wants to look 
at you; it will do him good and will not hurt you." 
On this visit Mr. Howells also had a great desire to 
meet Harriet Prescott, now so well known to letters 
as Harriet Prescott Spofford. "There was a wonderful 
young girl who had written a series of vivid sketches 
and taken the heart of youth everywhere with amaze- 

[79] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

ment and joy," he wrote of her in after years. From 
what a living fountain Mrs. Spofford draws her in- 
spiration may be measured by the fact that for nearly 
seventy years she has kept tryst with the Muses, and 
has been engaged in active literary work for all this 
time. It is a question as to whether this experience 
has ever been paralleled in literary history. At this 
writing Mrs. Spofford has passed her eighty-third birth- 
day and she began recognized contributing in her early 
teens. She is the oldest living contributor to the 
Atlantic Monthly, and to Harper s, and is now the only 
survivor of that literary circle in which she was so 
resplendent a figure. From her picturesque summer 
home on Deer-Island-in-the-Merrimac, Mrs. Spofford 
comes for the winters to Boston, where, in her apart- 
ment looking out on Trinity Church and Copley 
Square, she can sit at the window and see all the world 
go by, like the Lady of Shalott. 

"There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colors gay." 

No social privilege in latter-day Boston is more 
enjoyable than a late afternoon hour with Mrs. 
Spofford, who is a fascinating conversationalist. Mrs. 
Spofford and Mrs. Moulton were almost of an age, 
even to a day; and were the most intimate and con- 
genial of lifelong friends. For more years than can 
be counted these two poets wrote to each other every 
day, without exception, with mutual agreement to 
destroy all letters as they came. Genius, love, and 
friendship were to each a triple dower. It is Mrs. 
Spofford, as will be remembered, who wrote the ex- 

[80] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

quisite Introduction, biographical and critical, to the 
complete edition of Mrs. Moulton's poems (1908) 
published soon after her death. The death of Mrs. 
Moulton occurred in the August of 1908. At that 
time I was in Paris, and a cablegram from her daughter, 
saying that she had left a request that I should be her 
biographer, brought me back to Boston. Mrs. Spof- 
ford replied to some inquiry of mine regarding Mrs. 
Moulton's last days: 

.... Never was illness borne with such patience 
and sweetness. She read her letters, and I read 
much poetry aloud to her, especially Tennyson. The 
day before she passed she recited the poem of her own, 
beginning, 

"Roses that briefly live:" 

and her voice had all its wonderful range and beauty. 
. . . Her daughter requested that flowers should not 
be sent; but they came in such quantities, the house 
was lined with them. . . . The more I think of her 
the greater she seems to me. Her poems, her nature, 
her life, — there must be abundant material to make 
a very interesting book. How we shall miss her, her 
cheer, her sympathy, her goodness! . . . How lovely 
of you to treat my verses so. It warms my heart. 
I hope we shall see more of each other when you 
return. ... I read last night a lovely poem of yours, 
"A Magic Moment," in the Bazar. How do you 
find time for so much? I have a fancy that only 
systematic people achieve a good deal, and you never 
struck me as systematic. Alas! I am not. . . . Do 
you ever cross the river (referring to the Seine) at 
sunset, looking to the Eiffel Tower against the back- 
ground of splendor, and on the other side to the twin 
towers of Notre Dame? . . . 

[81] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

After the publication of this book ("Louise Chandler 
Moulton; Poet and Friend") I sent a copy to Mrs. 
Spofford, who after saying some too generously kind 
things of my work, added: 

What a life was that of Louise! And how modest 
she was about it all, and how faithful to good taste 
and all the traditions of hospitality she was in never 
printing her experiences and adventures in foreign 
society. 

The lyric quality of Mrs. Moulton's verse was singu- 
larly appealing; and her sonnets had few equals 
among those of women poets, with the single excep- 
tion of the "Sonnets from the Portuguese," which 
remove Mrs. Browning from any possible comparison. 
"It seems to me," said Whittier of Mrs. Moulton's 
work in this form, "that the sonnet was never set 
to such music, and never weighted with more deep 
and tender thought." 

No more delightful personality than that of Susan 
Hale, the younger sister of Edward Everett and Lu- 
cretia P. Hale, could be encountered in the social life 
of Boston. Miss Hale was by way of being an artist, 
and she was an effervescent letter-writer. When 
we were both in Boston (for she, like myself, passed 
much time abroad), she would not infrequently drop 
into my niche in the late afternoon, finally starting 
up with the words; "Well, I'm to dine with the rich 
and the great to-night, and I must be going." Once 
we met in the elevator of the Savoy Hotel in Genoa, 
two surprised beings, as neither of us knew the other 
was there. Miss Hale had come up from Egypt to 

[82] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

sail from that port, and I from Florence. She was then 
seventy years of age; but she was "the belle of the 
ball" on that voyage. Every one was attracted to 
her, whose wit and charm illuminated the days. 

At one sailing she wrote me of her impending de- 
parture and said, "I am to alight at Gibraltar, daw- 
dling with grapes at Malaga, getting to Cannes in 
December, with an inexplicable desire to pass a month 
with myself." 

There was a pleasantry in those years that if you 
lived in Boston you could go to New York; but if 
you lived in New York, where could you go? To 
one devotee of the modern Athens, at all events, it was 
a delight to go to the metropolis, and meet a charm- 
ing circle of friends. There were the Stedmans and 
the Stoddards; Anne Lynch Botta, poet and gracious 
lady; Mrs. Lucia Gilbert Runkle; the brilliant Mrs. 
Anna Bowman Dodd; Edgar Fawcett, then in his 
zenith as a writer of fiction, the scenes of which were 
mostly laid in New York; Professor Bjerregaard, the 
mystic, then at the head of the Astor Library and 
now the second chief official in the great Public 
Library of New York. These and others formed 
a group that made a week's sojourn in New York 
something to anticipate. Kate Field had established 
herself in the old Hotel Victoria in Fifth Avenue; 
the Stoddards were in a modest house in Fifteenth 
Street, which on entering revealed itself as a book- 
lined palace; the Stedmans were domiciled in an im- 
posing mansion, and Mrs. Dodd was in her Madison 
Avenue home to be exchanged later for a residence 
in Paris. All this coterie made life delightful. Mrs. 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

Stoddard, who had never abandoned the direct and 
forcible dialect of her native New England, used to 
extend her hospitalities to a wandering journalist in 
such phrases as these: 

"Come and stay with Dick and me; we like to have 
you; what do you want to go to these expensive 
hotels for? You're not a rich woman." 

Those evenings at the Stoddards when all sorts of 
interesting people were dropping in (for the charm of 
conversation was not then relegated to the negligible) 
stand out as memorable hours. The pictures of Robert 
and Elizabeth Barrett Browning looked down on these 
married poets, Richard Henry and Elizabeth Stoddard. 
Poetry, to read it and to write it, was the occupation 
of the household. Other matters were purely inciden- 
tal. The little guest-room steeped the night's sleep 
in literature, for the walls were lined with books, 
and the room so small that one need hardly lift his head 
from the pillow to put out his hand for treasured vol- 
umes that not infrequently at the touch would come 
tumbling down in an avalanche on the bed, so that one 
pursued his dreams encompassed by literature. Wak- 
ing with the dawn, one might devote himself to the 
sages in the not unprofitable interval before the eight 
o'clock breakfast, at which also books and authors were 
more in evidence than the matutinal coffee. The 
Stoddards and the Stedmans were on the most familiar 
terms. They were "Dick and Elizabeth," "Edmund 
and Laura" to each other. The refrain of both 
households was, — 

"Thought is the wages 
For which I sell days." 

[84] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

Mrs. Botta was one of the rare personalities whose 
high order of talent, expressing itself in poetry, prose 
literature, and the plastic art, was yet so rivaled by a 
marvelous capacity for friendships with the most 
diverse groups of people, as to make one half forget her 
genius or her achievements in the signal charm of her 
presence. Her house was a wayside of hospitalities, 
and the ornaments of her home were, indeed, the 
friends who frequented it. Mrs. Botta was among the 
first to recognize the spiritual beauty and the classic 
art of the poems of Edith Thomas. She had been 
the friend of all the wonderful group from Emerson and 
Margaret Fuller to Helen Hunt and Edith Thomas and 
Louise Imogen Guiney. 

One evening at Mrs. Botta's house gleams in my 
own memory, when Mr. and Mrs. William Wetmore 
Story, of Rome, were the guests of honor, and Mr. 
Story read from his then unpublished manuscript, 
"He and She; A Poet's Portfolio." That evening 
must have revealed to the poet the high place he held 
in his own country, for all literary New York, as it was 
in that day, was present; and Kate Field, a fairy 
figure in a blue gown with roses in her corsage, assisted 
the hostess in receiving the distinguished guests. 
The genial and gracious air of Mr. Story on that night 
is quite unforgettable. He seemed to be all that a 
poet and a great sculptor could be, — dowered, indeed, 
so richly and variously, that his life on earth afforded 
no adequate time for his complete unfoldment. The 
Storys were in their native country on a brief visit, 
and to hear of their life in Rome, where they were 
domiciled in the old and famous Palazzo Barberini, 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

was to catch a glimpse of fairyland. Italy seemed to 
to me then as remote and as unattainable as Mars; yet 
(so unforeseen is the pathway of the Golden Road) 
it was hardly a decade before I, too, was destined to 
come into familiar knowledge of this most magnificent 
of the Roman palaces. Before that time, however, 
Mr. and Mrs. Story had both passed from earth, and 
the beautiful sculpture of an angel kneeling in sorrow 
and in supplication, with which Mr. Story marked the 
grave of his wife, is the memorial for himself, as well, 
in that little English cemetery in Rome where the 
visitor finds so many familiar names. 



[86] 



IV 

SAILING ENCHANTED SEAS 

" The sea I sail has never yet been passed." 

Dante 

THE miracle-moments of life are apparently as 
much a part of its orderly progress as are those 
less exceptional; and it may have been in one of these, 
on a brilliant day in the late summer of 1895, there 
came a lightning-flash vision and inspired a resolve to 
go to Italy and write a study of the life and poetry 
of Mrs. Browning. Whether this purpose, so wholly 
unsustained by terrestrial ways and means, clothed it- 
self in power from the ether of space, may be an open 
question; but in some way the dream fulfilled itself 
and in the early May of the next spring I found myself 
en voyage, in that half unconscious way in which one 
follows "The Gleam." Looking backward on such 
experiences one may wonder a little; at the moment 
nothing could seem more natural. A little volume 
of mine, "The World Beautiful," my first essay into 
the world of books, had appeared in the autumn 
of 1894, meeting a reception whose kindness incited 
my surprise as well as gratitude, this being followed 
by a second and subsequently a third series, under the 
same title. Reverend William Brunton, for many 
years the pastor of the Memorial (Unitarian) church 

[87] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

in Fairhaven, welcomed each of these little volumes 
of mine that appeared along those years with a sonnet, 
of which one (for "The Spiritual Significance," a book 
published in 1900) thus runs: — 

Good friend, what thoughts like flowers fill thy page, 

And gladden all the lowly ways of life, 

Preparing us for trouble, toil and strife, 
And giving strength to youth and peace to age! 
Now like a bird thou dost the soul uncage, 

And cut the ties of time with golden knife; 

Now all experience is with beauty rife, 
The inspiration of the saint and sage! 
God bless you for these living words of truth, 

For such uplifting thoughts of help and cheer, 
And such wide opening of the world before; 
It gives the soul a sense of endless youth, 

It makes our life of God's unceasing year, 
And fills the now with Love's eternal store! 

Meantime, some stray rhymes that had written 
themselves through past years were collected and 
published under the title of "From Dreamland Sent"; 
a name unconsciously suggested by Mrs. Moulton on 
one of those mornings when we were together in her 
own room; one of those mornings when she would 
read to me the new poem she had written on first 
waking that day; when we talked wholly of poets 
and lost ourselves in ecstatic dreams. To us both 
poetry offered an impassioned joy that no words 
could interpret. Making some allusion to my verses 
which I was arranging for publication, I quoted Lowell's 
exquisite lines 

"Sometimes a breath floats by me, 
An odor from Dreamland sent — " 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

"Stop!" exclaimed Mrs. Moulton, lifting a dainty 
hand; "there is your title; 'From Dreamland Sent.'" 
So the little chansons received their christening, and 
with these slender hostages given to the world, the 
gleam of the golden road beckoned to Italy. 

Never could there be a more complete misnomer than 
to think of the "golden" road as associated in the least 
with its literal significance. Its gold was of the fairy 
order; the gold of priceless friendships and asso- 
ciations; of pleasant leadings, flowers and fragrances, 
of stars and sunsets. 

"The Gleam, flying onward," beckoned to the un- 
known, and after a brief glimpse of London, the 
crossing to Paris was made in a sudden storm that 
transformed the Channel into a sea of mountainous 
cataracts. The spring salons had opened, and the 
charm of French art held me under its resistless spell. 

On that initial visit, as on every subsequent one 
for eighteen consecutive years after, Paris stood to 
me as a universe in herself, and one that was all- 
satisfying. One could conceive of passing absolutely 
blissful eternities within the limit of her environs with- 
out thought of going further. There was Art, there 
was Beauty, there was Literature, there was Science. 
There were every phase, privilege, opportunity, that 
the mind of man could imagine. The only pain that 
Paris can ever offer is when one must leave her. And 
the interludes between one's sojourns in the City of 
Sainte Genevieve are sustained by the hope and the 
confident expectation of being again permitted the 
rapture of a stay in Paris. For myself, my world 
began and ended, so it then seemed, with this marvel- 

C 89 T 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

lous city. Even the dream of Italy was, for a time, 
in abeyance before its spell. A month's lingering was 
little more than a prelude to a picturesque sweep 
through southern Europe to Budapest, on the occasion 
of the Millennial celebration of Hungary, for which 
a brilliant Exposition was to be opened. It was an 
alluring prospect to make the journey there in company 
with some Paris friends, a French critic and his wife, 
yet, so closely do joy and sorrow meet in the wonder- 
ful interweaving of life, that just as we were leav- 
ing came the tidings of the death of Kate Field in 
Honolulu. 

From Paris to Budapest, with brief interludes in 
Zurich and Vienna, is a picturesque journey by that 
splendid Orient express whose terminal is Constan- 
tinople. Madame Materna was then in her villa just 
outside of Vienna, and her invitation (given me some 
years before in Boston) to visit her and to see her rose 
garden, thus unexpectedly became possible to accept. 

The villa was almost a memorial shrine to Wagner; 
his busts, portraits, photographs, framed letters, 
autographed music scores, were everywhere; every 
salon had its collection of Wagner souvenirs. "It is 
the feeling," observed my hostess; "everywhere it 
is the feeling." Interesting, also, were the many 
representations of Madame Materna herself in her 
favorite opera roles, those of Brunhilde and Isolde, 
especially, many times repeated. The rose garden 
proved to be no misnomer. It fully lived up to its 
reputation, with more than an hundred varieties, each 
more beautiful than the other. I seemed in a very 
Bendemeer's Bower, so surrounded was I with masses 

[90] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

of these lovely roses when I returned to the city. 
Madame Materna's devotion to roses seemed typical 
of the taste in Austria-Hungary, and on the hills rising 
from the old town of Buda, there is the tomb of Gul 
Baba, the Turkish saint, who is known as the "Father 
of Roses." The mausoleum is in the form of a crescent, 
all glittering in gold, under a tiled roof, and the height 
is known as "Rozsahegy," the rose hill. Here come 
the annual procession of the Mohammedans to pray 
at the tomb of the "Father of Roses." 

Among the features of the millennial celebration was 
the exhibition, in the ancient Coronation Church 
of St. Stephen, of the crown, the orb, and the scepter 
that Pope Sylvester II presented to Stephen I, in the 
year 1000. 

The twin cities, Buda and Pest, are a marvel to the 
foreigner. Their combination dates back only to 
1872, and they have a population of more than six 
hundred thousand. Buda is ancient; but Pest has 
the keynote of modernity. Budapest thus offers a 
fascinating and almost unbelievable combination of 
the incongruous. Hungary, the picturesque land of 
"the three mountains and the four rivers," disclosed 
itself to the students of its millennial celebration as a 
country claiming great rulers and great forces in 
literature, art, and music. Such painters as Mezoly, 
Szekely, Laszlo Paal, Szinyei-Merse, and Munkacsy, 
are in cosmopolitan rank; and there are several women 
painters who exhibited works which are memorable, 
among whom were Madame Sixorska, a sculptor, and 
the painters, Wilhelmina Parlaghy, Madame Ligetti, 
and the Countess Nemess da Konek. Many of the 

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paintings shown were creations with a political motif. 
To Munkacsy the Hungarian government paid the 
same appreciation that the French gave to Rodin. 
A separate pavilion was arranged for his picture — 
"Ecce Homo." 

It was delightful to drive in the fashionable thorough- 
fare, the Boulevard Andrassy-ut, which was as dis- 
tinctive as Hyde Park, or the Champs Elysees, with 
far more people in evidence than is usual in the Ely- 
sian Fields of Paris. Under this boulevard runs an 
electric tram which is still, I believe, unsurpassed by 
any in the world. To this subway broad staircases 
descend, marble-tiled, electric lighted, and with com- 
fortable seats placed against the walls. The trains 
themselves are marvels of luxury, in their construction 
of solid mahogany, the seats upholstered in velvet, 
and kept with a perfection of cleanliness that is some- 
thing incredible in public transit. A pleasant resort 
is Margaret Island, reached by Margaret bridge, 
where gardens rich in flowers and foliage enchant the 
eye, with a fine hotel and a casino on the site of the 
ancient convent, founded by the daughter of Bela IV; 
this was destroyed by the Turks who raised a mosque 
on the spot, which, in its turn, has given way to a later 
civilization. 

The grave of Hungary's celebrated patriot, Louis 
Kossuth, is always a shrine for the visitor. The 
inscription proclaims him an idealist but not an oppor- 
tunist; one whose lot was "hard and strenuous, 
without peace, without rest; now crowned with the 
beauty of Immortality and with the undying love 
of a grateful people." Not a fanatic or a visionary; 

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not a destroyer, but a great creator these lines assert 
him to be. "His creations are the foundations upon 
which Hungary is built to-day" is added. When the 
"Eighty Club" of London made their pilgrimage to 
the tomb of the Hungarian hero, they decorated it 
with an immense wreath, tied with gold and blue 
ribbons, with the legend, "To the Glorious Memory 
of Louis Kossuth." 

The Exposition grounds were oriental in design and 
color; vistas of statues, towers, banners, whose bril- 
liant hues floated to the winds; fountains, with their 
mermaids, naiads, and sea gods, throwing up jets of 
water seen through rose and green and violet lights; 
avenues of palaces; minarets and domes piercing the 
air; weird strains of Hungarian music; festoons of 
colored lanterns by night, and fantastic electrical 
effects, — all these blended in fascination indescrib- 
able. The royal opera house in which the Literary 
Congress met was superb; and the statuesque line of 
soldiers, who stood at attention all the way on the 
grand escalier, presented such immovability that it was 
a question as to whether they were animate or inani- 
mate forms. At this congress papers were read in 
many languages, and discussed in as many more, and 
it closed with a grand banquet so sumptuous in every 
detail, and with such splendor of decorations, such 
brilliancy of oratory, such cordial and genial feeling, 
that all bounds of race and country vanished in a 
sense of literary brotherhood and community of ideas 
and of aims. 

The pavilions of all these southern Danube countries 
had infinite points of interest, and I especially recall 

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that of Bosnia, whose effect, as a whole, was a reve- 
lation of barbaric splendor and gorgeousness of color, 
though I am unable to recall a single detail that pro- 
duced so striking an effect. It rises before me in the 
ensemble alone. 

The University of Hungary, in Budapest, is open to 
women on equal terms with men. The city has a 
large library and a museum of archaeology, under 
the directorship of Professor Hampel, a celebrated 
savant; its public schools are excellent, and its activi- 
ties in the way of free lectures, of clubs, and of centers 
of study, fairly rival those of Boston. 

The journey to Venice was made memorable to me 
by one of those so-called chance meetings that create 
such pleasant interludes in life. Perhaps, with deepen- 
ing perceptions of this wonderful fabric that we call 
life, woven of mingled dreams and experiences, we shall 
come to realize that there is no such thing as a 
"chance" encounter; that all is arranged under the 
orderly sequence of the law that governs an individual 
course as unerringly as it governs the courses of the 
stars. 

The train was rushing on in the deepening twilight. 
It was "a night in June, upon the Danube river," 
which we continually crossed and recrossed. Watch- 
ing the sunset lights, I was recalled to the realities of 
the moment by the appearance of the conductor, whose 
language was limited to his native Hungarian. I 
offered him my ticket; my keys; almost everything, 
indeed, save my heart and hand, but none of these met 
his insistence. Just then in the corridor a sweet voice 
was heard, saying in the best of English, "Can I be of 

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any use?" and at the door of my compartment a lady 
stood, who at once translated the official's remarks 
into the question as to whether I would have dinner at 
a certain station to which he was telegraphing the 
number of passengers who would require service. 
The lady proved to be Madame Hampel, the wife of 
the director of the archaeological museum, and the 
daughter of Count Pulszky, who had shared the politi- 
cal exile of Kossuth. 

The two friends had visited Boston together in 1850; 
they had known Emerson and Elizabeth Peabody, 
who warmly espoused the cause of Hungary and 
wrote an article on Kossuth, which may still be found 
in a volume of her literary papers. In Madame Ham- 
pel's childhood they had lived much in Florence, 
and she remembered Mrs. Browning and Thomas 
Adolphus Trollope, who had been a great friend of 
Count Pulszky 's. As one of Madame HampePs 
brothers was a member of the Austro-Hungarian 
Parliament, she had come to be familiar with many 
of the diplomatic schemes of that day; tendencies that 
seem to have dimly foreshadowed problems whose 
fuller sequence is now disclosed in the world conflict. 
But who, in the June moonlight of that summer of 
1896, could have interpreted the Sibylline leaves that 
were destined to be unrolled in 1914? The Hand- 
writing on the Wall was yet to be unveiled. 

Venice, and June, and one's first sight of Italy! 
Could Paradise the Blest offer a more enchanting 
combination? After a night's travel occupied, princi- 
pally, in waiting at little stations for the next train, 
suddenly, like a vision, all the magic and the rapture 

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of Italy seemed to crystallize in that brilliant morning 
when the rose-colored city gleamed above the pale 
green waters. Domes and spires were touched with 
gold; the sky was of the deepest, most melting, sap- 
phire blue; and roses, roses were everywhere. The 
ineffable glory of Venice on that morning, with the 
snow on the distant Alps touched with "waves of 
flame," and the dream of faintest transparent haze 
over the exquisite coloring of the marble palaces rising 
from the water, was a scene to impress the imagination. 
It was all so lovely and unreal as to seem like a mirage 
rather than a reality. 

"Italy has to me so strange a fascination that I can 
hardly fancy how any one who can live in it, can 
live out of it," said Lord Lytton; and apparently 
Mrs. Arthur Bronson was of the same mind. For- 
saking her native New York, Mrs. Bronson lived for 
more than twenty years in Casa Alvisi, on the Grand 
Canal opposite the church of Santa Maria della Salute, 
her home being felicitously described by Henry James 
as a private box, from which all the pageant of Venetian 
life could be seen. Not to know Mrs. Bronson was 
not to know Venice. The palace of the Doge Andrea 
Gritti, that of the Mannolesso-Ferri, and the tradi- 
tional house of Desdemona combined to form the 
Grand Hotel, in which I was domiciled, almost next 
door to Mrs. Bronson's casa. That June morning 
disclosed a sunlit picture of the brilliant effects of this 
"golden city paved with emerald," as Ruskin described 
it; of a procession of gondolas ceaselessly passing up 
and down; and the domes and towers of the Maria 
della Salute seen from the open balcony where, with 

[96] 



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the delightful informality of Italy, I was enjoying the 
matutinal coffee and rolls from a tray, easily resting 
on a little table on the balcony, and looking out on the 
wonderful pageant. Why should one bestow himself 
in the salle-a-manger when all Venice could be before 
his eyes for the asking? A June morning, and one's 
first sight of Italy, and that initial sight in Venice! 
Could life on this terrestrial plane ever again offer 
any happiness comparable with this moment? 

There is a further dreamlike recollection of a little 
white room whose only defect was that it had to be 
shared with the Venetian mosquito, who had profited 
little by the privileges of his environment, and was as 
venomous as if he had been a mere native of New 
Jersey. Wraithlike, too, across this vista of twenty- 
two years, rises my first wandering from a door in the 
rear of the hotel, into the calle, by which two minutes' 
walk led one into the Piazza di San Marco, where 
Petrarca sat in the seat of honor at the right of the 
Doge, against the background of the bronze horses, 
to witness the brilliant festival that celebrated a 
Venetian victory over the Greeks. 

The Piazza is the concentration of Venice; the in- 
comparable splendor of San Marco, — "an illuminated 
missal in mosaic"; the lofty tower, the arcades, the 
mosaics on the facade of the cathedral ! One had only 
to enter the portals; pass the thirteenth-century 
mosaics of the vestibule, on into the atrium and under 
the Oriental splendor of those domes, to stand before 
the Pala d'Oro, that altar of gold encrusted with silver 
and aglow with thousands of precious jewels, wrought 
in Constantinople in 1105. One wanders to the 

[97] 



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marvelous bronze door of the Sansovino sacristy to 
study the alto rilievo portraits of the prophets and 
evangelists; the portrait of Titian, also, and one of 
Sansovino himself; or sits and gazes at that forest 
of pillars that look as if they were carved from ivory. 
The memory is as if one had been permitted to pass 
the celestial gates. 

Again, on that never-to-be-forgotten morning, I 
found myself at the portals of the Doges' Palace, 
famed as being one of the most beautiful structures 
in the world, through whose apartments every visitor 
to Venice first wanders. One ascends the Scala d'Oro 
as in a dream; he lingers spellbound before the Bac- 
chus and Ariadne of Tintoretto, and passing from this 
salon into the Sala del Collegio, pauses wonderingly 
before all those portraits of the Doges. Tintoretto 
has depicted them in various aspects: Andrea Gritti 
in a devotional attitude before the Virgin; Alvise 
Mocenigo in adoration, and Francesco Donato gazing 
rapturously at the spectacle of the nuptials of Saint 
Catherine. Here, too, are many works of Paul 
Veronese, and in the Sala del Senato is the "Descent 
from the Cross " by Tintoretto, and his famous ceiling, 
painted to depict Venice as the bride of the Adriatic. 
It is in the Sala del Consiglio del Died that one first 
feels a thrill of awe at Venice in this haunt of the 
terrible Council of Ten. But how one is entranced by 
Tintoretto's Paradiso, which fills one end of the vast 
hall! Here, again, is a wonderful ceiling, representing 
the Apotheosis of Venice, the sumptuous creation of 
Paolo Veronese. Seventy-six portraits of seventy-six 
Doges adorn the immense hall of the Collegia and 

[98] 



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suggest the desirability of greater familiarity with 
Venetian history in order to enter into their full en- 
joyment. One stands on the Bridge of Sighs, or, at 
least on the bridge usually supposed to be that famous 
one. But perhaps no vista of the Doges' Palace, outer 
or inner, can surpass its view from the waters of the 
Grand Canal, with its massive arches below, and the 
numerous and slender arches above, the facade all 
in that soft rose-pink that prevails in Venice. 

An interest of quite another chronological order was 
that of the Palazzo Rezzonico, familiarly known as the 
"Browning Palace," which at this period was usually 
accessible to strangers. To my great disappointment 
I found it then closed, and there seemed no way of 
which I knew to pass the portals. So the dream- 
enchanted visit was about to end; I had even stepped 
into the gondola to take the train for Florence when 
Signor Pianti (my padrone) came running down the 
marble steps of the hotel, against which the water 
ceaselessly plashed, exclaiming: 

"Signorina, if you can yet stay a little, the Signora 
Bronson will arrange for you to visit the Browning 
palace." 

Would I stay? Rather! My impedimenta were 
again carried up to the little white room shared with 
the mosquitoes, and by Mrs. Arthur Bronson's very 
kind invitation, Signor Pianti took me over, by way 
of the calle, to "Ca' Alvisi," which her gracious hos- 
pitalities had long made famous. "Every hour of 
the day I miss you, and wish I were with you and dear 
Edith again, in beloved Casa Alvisi" wrote Robert 
Browning to Mrs. Bronson, under date of December 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

15, 1888, and the poet expressed the feeling of all those 
guests who, from time to time, enjoyed her entertain- 
ment. The "dear Edith" is now the Contessa Rucel- 
lai, of Florence, and Mrs. Bronson passed on, some 
years ago, from the life on earth to which she con- 
tributed so much of value. The remainder of my 
sojourn in Venice at that time was made delightful 
by the spell of her lovely kindness. The little dinners 
and the long evening talks with her vivified the Dream 
City; and her conversation was fascinating in its 
interest. Mrs. Bronson had made of this little casa 
the most picturesque retreat, filling the irregular 
rooms with all sorts of lovely Venetian things, — ■ 
rich embroideries from priests' vestments; fantastic 
silver lamps of the fifteenth century; old tapestries; 
painted figures from the shrine of some Madonna; 
trays of gilt bronze and silver; mirrors with sprays of 
roses painted across one corner; a cabinet of all varie- 
ties of Venetian glass, from the tiny goblet so thin that 
it seemed but a shadow on the air, to large epergnes, 
fruit dishes, and crystal trays. Mr. James speaks 
of the necromancy with which Katherine Bronson, 
seated on a sofa, deep in conversation, would cause 
"little gilded glasses" to circulate among her guests. 
Mrs. Bronson used her imagination in entertaining, 
and no one better understood the power of scenic 
setting and dramatic action in a drawing-room where 
it is not less effective than on the stage. She had the 
unconscious art of always making a picture of herself 
and of her surroundings. She was very plastic and 
fell easily into an artistic pose. Her dressing was 
individual, rather than merely fashionable. She had 

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a very wonderful social facility. To her casa she had 
annexed a portion of the ancient Palazzo Giustiniani- 
Recanti, for space in which to bestow the many guests 
whom she delighted to entertain. Easily first of these 
was Robert Browning and his sister Sarianna, who 
were annually domiciled with her over a long period. 
"To whom but you, dear Friend," wrote the poet to 
her in his "Asolando," inscribed to Mrs. Bronson, 
"should I dedicate verses, some of them written, all 
of them supervised in the comfort of your presence, 
and with yet another experience of the gracious hospi- 
tality now bestowed on me since this many a year." 

The Giustiniani had an outlook on a court and 
garden of great beauty, through old Gothic windows 
where the Doge Marcantonio Giustiniani may often 
have gazed. He loved his Venice though he ruled her 
with an iron hand; and it is said that his death, in 
1694, was marked by elaborate mourning ceremonies. 

Mrs. Bronson's request to the old Italian keeper 
of the Browning palace was the magic sesame; and 
I was privileged to linger at will in those spacious and 
magnificent salons filled with the souvenirs of the 
wedded poets. Barrett Browning had purchased the 
Palazzo Rezzonico in 1888, bringing to it his bride of 
a year (Fannie Coddington of New York), and here, 
in December of 1889, the Poet passed away. So ma- 
jestic and beautiful was his appearance in death that 
Mrs. Barrett Browning had a photograph taken of 
him which has never been reproduced until now, in 
this present volume. Barrett Browning kept this 
palace until 1905, when he sold it, and purchased Casa 
Guidi in Florence. To his daughter-in-law the Poet 

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was deeply attached, and it was during his last visit 
in his son's home that he wrote his poem entitled 
"Reverie." As soon as it was written, he called for 
"Fannie" to read it aloud to her, and she at once felt 
its wonderful power and begged him to read it again. 
He seemed much gratified by her appreciation, and at 
the very last of his life they spoke together of the 
fourth and fifth stanzas, especially, the latter which 
runs: 

"I truly am, at last! 

For a veil is rent between 
Me and the truth which passed 

Fitful, half-guessed, half-seen." 

Among his intimate circle Robert Browning was 
always spoken of as the Poet, as his son was also Mr. 
Browning, thus avoiding confusion as to identity. 
His daughter-in-law, who was deeply devoted to him, 
habitually refers to him as "the Poet," in distinction 
from her husband. In this summer of 1896 the Rez- 
zonico was a very Valhalla of Robert and Elizabeth 
Barrett Browning. There were many portraits of 
each: one of Mrs. Browning in her childhood, standing 
in a garden with her apron filled with flowers; several 
of the poet, among which was that by his son, painted 
in 1882; and the famous Watts portrait of him which 
is preserved in the National Gallery in London; there 
were Story's busts of the wedded poets; and Barrett 
Browning's bust of his father, the original of which 
he gave to the Browning Settlement in Camberwell, 
London, because of his sympathy with this humani- 
tarian work established in memory of his father. 
In the stately salon looking out on the Grand Canal 
[102] 



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33 




THE GOLDEN ROAD 

there was a recessed alcove which had been the private 
chapel of the Rezzonico, and which Barrett Browning 
had converted into a shrine for his mother. He had 
draped the windows in palest green plush, placing on 
either side tall gold vases encrusted with green; and on 
the ivory-hued wall he had caused to be inscribed, in 
golden lettering, the same inscription that Tommaseo 
wrote for the tablet affixed to Casa Guidi in Florence. 
The library abounded in autograph presentation 
copies from brother authors, and also in translations 
of. nearly all the works of both the Brownings. A 
vast salon with a floor of black marble had been the 
scene of the funeral of the poet. Each visitor to the 
Rezzonico was requested to write in the record book, 
and my own inscription was these two lines of Mrs. 
Browning's own : — ■ 

"Albeit softly in our ears her silver song was ringing, 
The footfall of her parting soul was softer than her singing." 



[103] 



V 

ITALIAN LIFE AND EXPERIENCES 

"A glimmer of dim marbles, rich and rare; 

A smile that runs from heaven down to me, 
A music and a silence . . . Italy!" 

Grace Ellery Channing 

FROM Venice to Florence on this initial bet giro 
in Italy! It was a moonlight evening, and be- 
tween Bologna and Florence the route lay amid purple 
mountain peaks swimming in a sea of silver mist. 
The haunting pictures of those Venetian days, the 
thrilling anticipations of the Florentine days on which 
I was about to enter, were equally mingled. Venice 
seemed a dream, and I could not but wonder whether, 
could I have returned that night, I should still have 
found those domes and towers gleaming in the ineffable 
light? Still the mountain peaks loomed toward the 
violet sky, floating in seas of silver. The moon came 
down and fluttered in the trees. The stars shone with 
a brilliancy indescribable, and now and then a meteor 
darted through the air. Florence, lying fair in the 
Val d'Arno, announced itself by the colossal Duomo 
that towered over the city. The strange, tall tower 
of the Palazzo Vecchio and the colossal Duomo that 
dominates Florence were faintly described in shadowy 

[104] 



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outline under the brilliant Italian skies. It was all 
bewilderingly familiar, so vividly has Florence been 
pictured and described, and still incredibly unreal. 

The house built by Thomas Adolphus Trollope, in 
the Piazza Independenza, had become a private hotel, 
admirably kept by Mrs. McNamee of New York; 
it was fairly enshrined in literary associations of the 
days when the Trollopes made their home one of such 
famous hospitalities; when on the terrace overlooking 
the garden with its ruined statue gathered the Brown- 
ings, Landor, Isa Blagden, Dall'Ongaro, and Pasquale 
Villari, then a youth from Sicily to whom Robert 
Browning took an especial fancy; when Charlotte 
Cushman, Harriet Hosmer, and Robert Lytton (later 
Lord Lytton, the "Owen Meredith" of poetic fame) 
were sojourning in Florence and joined in the resident 
group; when George Eliot and Mr. Lewes were for 
some weeks the guests of the Trollopes during the 
time that the author was making her studies for 
"Romola"; all these, and other delightful reminis- 
cences related in journals and magazines by Bayard 
Taylor, Kate Field, and other writers, had so invested 
the Villa Trollope with interest for me that I joyfully 
embraced the opportunity of being domiciled under 
its roof. The long French windows in my room 
opened out on the very marble terrace where the famous 
folk had long ago assembled to talk of Italian liberty 
and Italian poetry, and to eat ices and strawberries 
on summer evenings. The full moon turned the 
fountain to sprays of silver, and the "ruined statue" 
gleamed from the dark greenery of orange trees at 
the end of the walk. To draw a chair out on this 

[105] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

terrace in the witching hours and gaze on this scene 
was to fancy it fairly peopled again with those figures of 
the past. All the interior of Villa Trollope verified 
the descriptions I had read, — the broad marble 
staircase, the balconied room of George Eliot, over- 
looking the piazza, where in the evenings she had 
written out her notes for "Romola"; the faint strains 
of music from the streets that echoed then, as now, 
on the midnight air. 

To know Florence through pictures and descriptions, 
and then, by some miracle, to be free to wander through 
her streets; to find the statue of Ferdinando de' Medici 
in the Piazza dell' Annunziata, — that magnificent 
equestrian group by Giovanni di Bologna, which in- 
spired Browning's poem, "The Statue and the Bust," 
and picture the moment when, 

"He looked at her as a lover can; 
She looked at him as one who awakes; 
The past was a dream and her life began;" 

to find the marketplace of San Lorenzo, where Brown- 
ing chanced upon "the old yellow book" which sug- 
gested his plot for the greatest of his poems, "The 
Ring and the Book"; to lay lilies on the tomb of 
Mrs. Browning, and stand by the graves of Landor, 
Arthur Hugh Clough, Theodore Parker and Isa Blag- 
den; to loiter at will in the splendid galleries of the 
Pitti and the Uffizi; to pass long golden afternoons 
in the Accademia, and in San Marco, even to linger 
in the cell of Savonarola, which still holds his desk; 
to wander and dream in the vast Palazzo Vecchio; 
to stand in the little chapel where Savonarola made 

[106] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

his last communion, on the morning of his execution; 
to note the very spot, now marked by a tablet, where 
the fagots were lighted on that fatal morning of May 
28, 1498; to find the house of Dante; the tower of 
Galileo, — all these were interests of an initial visit, 
with the absorbing study of pictures and sculpture and 
monumental memorials! Only those who have shared 
these raptures can enter into the ineffable joy of morn- 
ings in Florence. Every annual visit from this first 
glimpse of the Flower City in the summer of 1896 up 
to the latest one of 1914 only deepened its charm, and 
in these recollections and reminiscences of Florentine 
experiences that rise in my memory like the Aurora 
in northern skies, no separate consideration is given to 
any particular visits. They all seem to blend. 

Socially, Florence is one of the most cultivated 
cities of Europe, — a society of scholars, artists, and 
writers, mingled with beauty, fashion, and interesting 
personalities. One of the most interesting is Professor 
Villari, "del maestro," the biographer of Savonarola 
and of Machiavelli, the author of several works on 
Italian history and of political and critical essays. 
He holds a chair in the University of Florence, and is 
also a senator of Italy. In the winter of 1910, Pro- 
fessor Villari received from the Crown the honor of 
the Gran Collare delV Annunziata, which makes him 
by courtesy "cousin to the king," and entitles him to 
be addressed as Excellenza. This decoration assures 
its possessor of an invitation to all royal fetes (indeed, 
it carries an obligation to be present at these), and 
it is so rarely bestowed that Professor Villari is only 
the ninth, in the entire history of Italy, to have re- 

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ceived this highest honor of the Crown. In the early- 
sixties, Doctor Villari had married Miss Linda White, 
a young English lady, who was visiting Florence 
and who was a special friend of Kate Field's; and 
to both these young girls the Brownings gave a warm 
friendship. Madame Villari acquired the Italian 
language almost as familiarly as her native English, 
and thus she has been enabled to become the perfect 
translator of her husband's works. She has also 
made some excursions into literature on her own 
account, and she aided Professor Villari materially 
in the deep researches required for the writing of those 
notable biographies. His life of Savonarola ranks with 
the best biographical work in all literature. In 
recognition of this and of his Machiavelli, he has re- 
ceived honorary degrees from several of the univer- 
sities of Europe, including the crowning honor of the 
D. C. L. from Oxford. Doctor Villari is held as the 
greatest living authority upon Italian history and 
progress. 

The home of the Villaris is one of the centers of 
scholarship and culture. His library is notable for its 
large collection of rare mediaeval works; and the 
numerous salons are enriched with old bronzes, carv- 
ings, and various souvenirs of Florentine history. 

Another of the delightful personalities met in Flor- 
ence was the Marchesa Peruzzi de* Medici (whose 
death occurred in 1917), the only daughter of William 
Wetmore Story. Apparently all the fairies came to 
the christening of his daughter Edith; no princess royal 
could look back on such a childhood as was hers, with 
Mrs. Browning to tell her children's stories, and Thack- 

[108] 




PASQTTALE VILLARI, LL.D., D.C.L. 

From a photograph 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

eray actually to write for her "The Rose and the Ring," 
to amuse the little maid of six years during some 
childish illness, when the great novelist sat by "Edie's" 
bedside and read to her the chapters as they were 
written. In later life she exhibited with pardonable 
pride a sumptuous volume, bound in rich Venetian 
red, with roses and rings in gold decorating the cover, 
and her own name also in golden letters, while the 
fly-leaf showed Thackeray's autographic inscription to 
his little friend. This was not the only book from an 
illustrious author that had been especially bound for 
Edith Story. Robert Browning had caused a set of 
his own works, complete, and also a set of Mrs. Brown- 
ing's, to be individually bound in vellum and gold 
for her, with his autographic inscription; Henry 
James sent her autographed copies of his own books as 
they appeared from the press; and her library, indeed, 
was largely made up of such treasures from a great 
number of the famous authors of the nineteenth 
century. The Marchesa was practically an Italian 
woman, born in Rome, and speaking Italian as her 
native language, although her English, too, was perfect, 
and her French would have graced a Parisienne. 
She was so highly accomplished, and beyond all her 
lovely gifts and culture was that nameless natural 
charm which is the supreme gift of life. 

It was in 1876 that Edith Story became the wife of 
the Commendatore Simone Peruzzi de' Medici, a dis- 
tinguished Florentine, who at that time was a gentle- 
man-in- waiting at the court of King Umberto. In 
the Via Maggio in Florence (not far from Casa Guidi 
where the Brownings lived) is the old Palazzo Peruzzi, 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

one of the beautiful old palaces of Florence. The 
Peruzzi is one of the famous families of Italy who, for 
generations, were intermarried with the Medici, and 
one room in the palace was entirely hung with portraits 
of the dead and gone Medici, some of them dating 
back to the thirteenth century. 

The Peruzzi always used the Medici crest — a 
shield containing a number of red balls on a gold 
ground. One branch of the house had three lilies on 
a blue ground. The Peruzzi were followers of the 
Guelph party, and Ubaldino fought in the war for the 
independence of Italy. He died leaving no children, 
and his wife Emilia lived in one of the Medici villas at 
l'Antella. In recent years (about 1905) this villa 
was bought by Robert Barrett Browning, and up to 
the time of his death, in July of 1912, Mr. Browning 
was occupied in restoring this structure. There was 
a tower which he had divided into seven stories of one 
room each, access to which was gained by a marble 
staircase on the outside. Each of these rooms Mr. 
Browning was furnishing in the fashion of a certain 
distinct period. One April day, in the spring of 1910, 
Mr. Browning sent his motor car into Florence to 
bring the Marchesa Peruzzi and myself out to his 
villa. That afternoon we spent in the gardens, walk- 
ing between rows of tall white lilies, and I, between 
the two old friends, listened with delight to their 
conversation. 

Among several letters from the Marchesa, one under 
date of March 13, 1916, is of rather special interest, 
because of what she says of a new tribute offered 
to Mrs. Browning. She thus writes: 

[110] 



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. . . You cannot imagine the pleasure I have 
had in reading your charming book. 1 It has taken 
me from the hard, cruel realities of the days we are 
living in, with all their heroic deeds and the sorrow 
we must have at heart, into that other atmosphere of 
those you bring before us so vividly. 

Thank you most warmly for what you have given 
me. I know you will feel interested in the beautiful 
tribute offered to the memory of our dear Mrs. Brown- 
ing so I send you the account of the ceremony of the 
unveiling of the little marble tablet at the side of 
Casa Guidi, under her balcony, that took place yester- 
day. The Syndic made a most charming and touching 
speech, a tribute to that golden heart which palpitated 
with love for our Italy, at a moment when all seemed 
only a dream, that has now, so fully, been realised. 
I was glad to be a little link with that Past whose 
friendship held such a strong grip on my life. Write 
more, dear Miss Whiting, and believe me, with the 
truest appreciation, 

Yours Cordially, 
Edith Peruzzi de' Medici. 

One strong attraction to Thomas Ball, the American 
sculptor, — whose villa in Florence, just outside 
Porta Romana, among sloping hills and masses of 
flowers was always visited by his countrymen who 
came to the Tuscan capital, — one allurement to Mr. 
Ball in his Florentine life was that it was the resi- 
dence of his friend, Francis Alexander, the artist, who 
is now chiefly remembered because of his daughter, 
Francesca, the protegee of Ruskin. Miss Alexander's 
translations of Tuscan songs, her "Story of Ida," and 
other literary work endeared her to the reading public. 

1 "The Brownings: their Life and Art." Little, Brown, and Com- 
pany, Boston, 1911. 

[in] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

My first meeting with her in Florence was due to the 
kindness of Miss Isabel MacDougall, who asked her 
consent to give me the privilege, and, accompanied 
by my friend, I went at the hour Miss Alexander had 
named. In her absolute simplicity of dress, with hair 
black as a raven's wing, and arranged after the Ma- 
donna fashion, she seemed to have just stepped from 
the walls of Santa Maria Novella, or some other 
chiesa, where saints most do congregate in pictorial 
evidence. Mrs. and Miss Alexander lived then in the 
Albergo Bonnelli, their apartment reached only by 
innumerable flights of stairs, but it opened on a broad 
terrace which provided such possibilities for air and 
exercise that Miss Alexander remarked that she some- 
times did not descend to terra firma once in three 
months. 

Her little salon was entirely lined with pictures, 
large and small, — good and bad, perhaps, — that she 
had collected. She was reticent, yet cordial, and at 
times very fluent in conversation. She was the friend 
of the poorer people, who adored her. Like Mr. Ball, 
that particular order of the universe which we know as 
the great world made no impression at all upon her; 
she would have treated the poorest peasant with the 
utmost courtesy; she could not have done more for 
one of the Strozzi princesses. She lived in a world 
where conventional distinctions had little recognition. 
As a young girl "she drew exquisitely," said Mr. 
Ball, "working every day in the cloisters and churches 
under her father's guidance." 

Mrs. Alexander lived to a great age, and she was not 
far from ninety when she collected the material for a 

[112] 



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very unique book, the " Libro d'Oro," transcribing her 
manuscript in the most exquisitely clear and micro- 
scopic hand. The work was published by the Boston 
house of Little, Brown, and Company sometime in 
the early years of the present century. 

Mr. Ball, whose household was completed by his 
daughter and son-in-law, the Coupers, with their 
three sons (all true Florentines), was located near the 
former home and studios of Hiram Powers. Mr. 
Couper had been a pupil of Mr. Ball's, as well as of 
Daniel Chester French, and he and his father-in-law 
had almost a gallery of their own work in a pavilion 
and studios in the grounds of the villa. Mr. Ball's 
great equestrian statue of Washington in the Public 
Garden in Boston, his portrait statue of John A. 
Andrew, and other notable works in his native city 
and in other parts of the States, keep his name in vivid 
remembrance. He is one of the few sculptors of the 
early period whose work survives the changes of 
plastic art without adverse criticism. 

In the eighties Mr. Ball passed one entire summer 
in Boston, during which time I frequently enjoyed his 
society, and in a note received from him during that 
sojourn, when he so missed his Florentine home and 
family, he wrote: 

... I feel very deeply the really touching manner 
in which not only my old friends, but many new ones, 
have greeted me, as if determined that I shall not feel 
too keenly the absence of those dear faces that have 
been wont to greet me, morning, noon, and night. 

On a wonderful June evening, the eve of St. John's 
Day, when I was a guest at their villa, and Florence 

[113] 



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was illuminated in honor of the festa, Mr. Ball pro- 
posed that we should all drive around the encircling 
hills of Florence (a distance of some fifteen miles) and 
look down on the glorified scene. Two landaus were 
engaged, in one of which Mr. Couper and his sons 
bestowed themselves, while Mr. Ball with his daughter 
and myself were in the other. The tower of Palazzo 
Vecchio, the vast Duomo, Giotto's Tower, and, indeed, 
almost every structure in Florence was ablaze. The 
curious effects in illuminations in Italy are produced 
by what they call the patella light, a little cup of oil 
in which floats a wick and which is attached to the 
iron and stone work of the towers and balconies. 
These lights flicker and glow and waver with every 
breath of air, a very moving forest of brilliancy, offering 
a spectacle as unique as it is splendid. When an 
illumination is to be made hundreds of men are em- 
ployed in hanging these little cups. 

Another American sculptor in Florence was Larkin 
G. Mead, a brother-in-law of Mr. Howells. Mr. 
Mead's Italian wife, who spoke no English, lent her 
pretty grace to their home, where I enjoyed more than 
one delightful evening. One of Mr. Mead's creations, 
"The River-God," placed at the head of the Mississippi 
River, perpetuates his name in this country. 

One cannot recall charming social centers in Florence 
without vivid remembrances of Lady Paget and the 
circle she drew about her in her villa on Bellosguardo. 
The villa was picturesque and legendary, in that it 
had formerly been a convent, and the refectory was 
still used as the dining-room. The approach was by 
winding terraces up a steep hill, the road shut in by 

[114] 




THOMAS BALL 

From a photograph 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

high, walls, in which here and there an open gate dis- 
closed glimpses of some mediaeval villa and grounds 
that might have belonged in a tale of Boccaccio. The 
ancient convent was full of mysterious passages and 
surprises; its heating facilities were so inadequate that 
its chatelaine and her guests not infrequently dined 
in fur coats, in winter; but the splendor of the view 
that it commanded over the towers and domes and 
palaces of Florence would have reconciled one to almost 
any minor discomfort. Across the rich green of the 
valley rose the heights of Fiesole, almost opposite, 
with the tower of the old cathedral, and with convents, 
villas, tall, dark, cypress trees, and clustering hamlets 
spread over the ranges of hills. 

While her name and title were English, Lady Paget 
was born in Saxony. Walpurga, Countess Holienembs, 
passed her childhood (in the early forties) in the castle 
built by the Emperor Henry. She was taught English 
with such success that before she was fifteen she had 
read the English classics. Born and bred in court 
circles, the youthful countess was one of four young 
girls of noble birth appointed to assist at the marriage 
of the Princess Royal (later the Empress Frederick) 
to Prince Frederick William. This was in 1858; 
and on arriving she was taken to Windsor Castle, 
presented to the Queen, Prince Albert, and the bride- 
elect, and at dinner was placed next Lord Palmerston. 
It was her duty to accompany the royal bride to Berlin, 
and for three years the Countess Hohenembs remained 
with the Princess Frederick. It was during this period 
that she first met Sir Augustus Paget, and their mar- 
riage took place from the royal household, Princess 

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Frederick giving the wedding breakfast for the bride. 
Two weeks later they visited London, where the 
Queen commanded Sir Augustus and Lady Paget to 
dine at Windsor Castle, and the bride was placed at 
the right of Prince Albert. During Lady Paget's 
stay in the household of Frederick and Victoria, she 
lived on terms of personal intimacy with the Crown 
Princess, who, some thirty years later, became the 
Empress Frederick. There are few now living who 
knew her so intimately as did Lady Paget. She 
describes her as a most unusual character, with a 
strange tendency to melancholy, yet with great power 
of decision and a remarkably swift grasp of conditions. 
"No one could then have foreseen how circumstances 
and tragic events would shape her to a peculiar mold," 
Lady Paget has since remarked of this Princess Royal 
of England, whose life was destined to be one of great 
trial. The Empress Frederick was a great admirer 
of the Empress Eugenie, who has always enjoyed the 
friendship of the royal family of England. Lady 
Paget once spoke to me of one especial characteristic 
of the Empress Frederick that suggested a subtle 
prevision of future events. When she was a young 
girl she one day made a drawing of an imaginary 
scene, representing a woman bending over a dead 
soldier on the Crimean battle field, with a portending 
storm in the sky and an atmosphere of tragedy. This 
was but one of many similar scenes that she con- 
stantly produced, apropos to nothing at the time. 
Did some dim shadow of the terrible period opening 
in 1914 fall into those mid-nineteenth century years? 
During his diplomatic career, Sir Augustus Paget 
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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

became British Envoy to Denmark, where they lived 
for some time in Copenhagen; later they were at the 
court of Portugal, and in 1867 he was appointed Minis- 
ter to Italy, Victor Emmanuel then being the king. 
At that time Florence was the Capital, "and there was 
about that exquisite city," said Lady Paget later, 
"a subtle but saddening charm; 'pulita quanta un 
giojello,' as Benvenuto Cellini terms it." 

"The art and beauty of Florence enchained me," 
Lady Paget would say, referring to those historic days; 
but in 1871, when Sir Augustus was made the Ambas- 
sador to Italy, and they took up their residence in 
Rome (which had become the Capital), she made her 
allegiance to the "Citta Eterna" when first she caught 
sight of the dome of St. Peter's. Those were the days 
of Roman pageants and splendor. 

Lady Paget was always persona grata at court; 
but her wide and varied culture led her also to many 
intimacies with artists, poets, and scientists. She 
greatly admired the art of Mr. Story, and she would 
frequently go to sit with him in his studio while he 
was at work, and she would recall with delight the 
sparkle and charm of his conversation. 

The honor of membership in the Insigne Accademia 
di San Lucca was conferred on Lady Paget, the only 
other woman member being the Contessa Lovatelli, 
a daughter of the well-known Roman savant, the 
Duca di Sermonetti. From all this rich background of 
her life, and with her charming personality, it will be 
easily recognized that she held a very notable place 
in Florentine society. 

Lady Paget was grande dame to her finger tips; 
[117] 



THE GOLDEN BOAD 

but she was equally a mystic and a born reformer. 
It is almost incredible that a woman whose life was 
compact of the most conservative social traditions of 
imperial Europe should have been a vegetarian, a 
suffragist, a theosophist, and intensely absorbed in 
psychical phenomena; yet this anomaly is true. 
There was no phase of modern reform with which she 
was not in sympathy, and she opened Villa Paget 
for drawing-room lectures on all these themes. Lady 
Paget was a loyal admirer of Annie Besant, whose 
intellectual greatness and remarkable presentation of 
spiritual truth she deeply appreciated. 

In the winter of 1900, Mrs. Besant came for a memo- 
rable three days to Florence, to give public lectures, 
and on one afternoon she addressed a distinguished 
company of invited guests at Lady Paget's. That 
January day fell like a rose in June, luminous, with 
sunshine that flooded the Val d'Arno. The hillside 
terraces were fragrant with roses and climbing wisteria. 
Lady Paget received in a salon of which the side toward 
Florence was almost wholly of glass, framing a picture 
of the city below that could hardly be effaced from 
memory. The air was laden with the breath of orange 
blossoms, and the profusion of pink oleanders in bloom 
made a feast of color. Against this rose-colored back- 
ground Annie Besant stood, her white robes falling 
in the long, straight lines that the artist loves, looking 
the priestess who might have just stepped from the 
processions to the temple of Eleusis. 

Lady Paget herself, in her appearance, always sug- 
gested a mediaeval abbess, a "most reverend Excel- 
lency," in that she was never seen without drapery 

[118] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

over her head, falling gracefully at the back, and a 
collar that completely concealed her neck and throat, 
fitting closely to the outline of the cheek and the 
delicately pointed chin. 

There was an almost continuous procession of house 
guests, who were among the eminent people of the day, 
in her villa. Her receptions were almost invariably 
enriched by visiting foreigners of distinction, for no 
city more than Florence attracts cosmopolitan travel. 
On one day there was Mrs. Humphrey Ward, for 
whom Lady Paget gave a breakfast afterward; again, 
at an afternoon tea, the guest of honor was Gabriele 
d'Annunzio, who enlivened, if not electrified, the occa- 
sion by rather wildly reciting from his own poems. 
There were titled guests, sometimes, the Princess 
(whose daughter is the present Queen of Italy) being 
an old and especial friend of the hostess. Now and 
then it was discreetly rumored through Florence (and 
no whispering gallery was ever more favorable for the 
dissemination of secrets than was Florence!) that 
Margherita, Regina Madre, was a quiet and secluded 
guest at Villa Paget. Quite aside from her royal in- 
vestiture, the Queen-Mother was an old friend of Lady 
Paget's, dating from the time that she was the beauti- 
ful Princess Margherita of Savoy. 

It was at one of these interesting receptions that 
I first met Professor Oscar Browning, of Oxford. 
Large of stature, in a rather bulky and undefined way, 
a fluent and easy conversationalist, with a humorous 
twinkle in his eye, Professor Browning suggested 
little of the traditional Oxford don in his appearance. 
Finding that I was staying in the Villa Trollope, he 

[119] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

asked if he might call the next day and see again 
the interior that he remembered so well, as a guest of 
Mr. Trollope's more than forty years before. He came 
and — he talked! He had known George Eliot in a 
close intimacy, and Lewes, Herbert Spencer, Frederic 
Harrison, and all that circle. It will be remembered 
that it is Professor Browning who has written the only 
satisfactory biography of George Eliot, considering 
the two or three biographies as distinctive from the 
invaluable biographical material afforded by the 
arrangement of her letters and diaries by Mr. Cross. 
A biography should be something more than the mere 
narrative of dates and outer events; and Professor 
Browning, who knew George Eliot so well, was endowed 
with that temperamental response that enabled him 
to interpret, rather than merely to picture, her life. 

Oscar Browning is not, as must be well known, 
a relative of the poet whose genius has made the name 
immortal, but the two were in the most friendly 
accord. The poet was twenty-five years the senior 
of the Oxford don; they had much in common, and 
while Professor Browning did not especially endeavor 
to trace out the arms, if any existed, of the ancestral 
Brownings, he records, in his "Memories," that when 
he first saw "Pen" Browning's gondoliers, at the 
steps of the Palazzo Rezzonico in Venice, "with their 
red tunics and the bands of gold and silver on their 
arms," he wished that he could display anything so 
striking. He adds that he "is reluctantly forced to 
believe" that between the poet and himself there were 
no ties "save those of friendship, which are often 
stronger than those of blood." Robert Barrett Brown- 

[120] 




ROBERT BARRETT BROWNING 
From a photograph presented to the author by Mrs. Broivutng 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

ing ("Pen") apparently inherited something of that 
vein of romanticism that expressed itself in some of 
the early poems of his mother, — as "The Romaunt 
of Margaret" and the "Vision of Poets." 

It was quite in keeping that in the Villa Trollope, 
in which George Eliot had written out her notes for 
"Romola," her old friend should have been led to speak 
of her freely. When Mr. and Mrs. Lewes were living 
in the Priory, in Regent's Park, Professor Browning 
made it a point to travel up to London to be present 
at their Sunday afternoons when they received their 
friends. He described their drawing-room as divided, 
with the grand piano in the smaller one; and he re- 
called the chief pictorial decorations as being the 
drawings that Frederick Leighton had made for 
illustrating "Romola." He mentioned that Herbert 
Spencer was invariably present on these occasions; 
that Mrs. Lewes would sit in an armchair by the fire, 
conversing with but one guest at a time, while Mr. 
Lewes handed around the tea. One interesting ad- 
mission Professor Browning made, in that it was him- 
self from whom, to some degree, George Eliot derived 
her character of Doctor Lydgate. As is well known, 
her Dorothea had her original prototype in Emilia, 
Mrs. Mark Pattison (later Lady Dilke), while Mark 
Pattison himself suggested Mr. Casaubon. Professor 
Browning told me, in reply to some questioning, that 
it was the custom of George Eliot always to read from 
Homer (whom she read in the original) before she began 
any writing, as the great Greek effectually carried her 
into an atmosphere different from the modern spirit 
by which she was surrounded. Homer had the effect 

[121] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

of insulating her, it would seem, from the immediate 
life; of opening the portal into that atmosphere of 
lofty thought wherein dwell the gods. 

Edward Dowden placed George Eliot among those 
artists "who, with Shakespeare, unite breadth of 
sympathy with power of interpreting the rarer and 
more intense experiences of men." With this esti- 
mate Professor Browning was in complete agreement, 
and he pointed out her wonderful power in a clarion 
call to the spirit, as given in such passages as that one 
where she asserts that we "are on a perilous margin 
when we begin to look passively at our future selves, 
and see our own figures led with dull consent into 
insipid doing and shabby achievement." 

Benjamin Jowett of Oxford, the master of Balliol, 
the greatest translator of Plato, the scholar and philos- 
opher, and the very apostle of serenity, persistence, and 
power, the close friend of Browning, Temiyson, Swin- 
burne, and also of George Eliot, was another member 
of Professor Browning's circle. Whom, indeed, of 
those who made great the mid- Victorian era, had he 
not known? Born in 1837, he was over sixty years of 
age at this time, and from his boyhood at Eton and 
Rugby, to all his later Oxford life, he had lived in the 
constant companionship of the intellectual forces of 
his time. He inquired if he might see the room he so 
well remembered as the study of Thomas Adolphus 
Trollope, where he wrote, always standing at his 
high desk? Mrs. McNamee, most gracious of padro- 
nas, willingly granted this, inviting him into the re- 
membered study, now transformed into a room of her 
private suite. I took him out into the garden to see 

[122] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

the ruined statue which had in no wise improved by- 
time, nor, indeed, deteriorated. It remained as Kate 
Field had described it more than thirty years before, 
and it is probably just as recognizable to-day. 

Among the great scholars of Florence whom I was 
sometimes privileged to meet at dinners, was the 
Commendatore Guido Biagi, who was the curator of 
the Laurenzian Library, and a great authority on 
Dante. He was the son of a Florentine artist, born in 
the Palazzo della Vacca, "behind the bells of San 
Lorenzo." His earliest recollections were of the curious, 
slender campanile of this ancient chiesa, and of the 
Capello Medici. Doctor Biagi has translated into 
Italian many poems from Browning; he is the author 
of a book called "Last Days of Shelley," and of many 
learned works. 

Helen Zimmern, a well-known woman of letters 
in Florence, made a specialty of lecturing on Dante, 
as well as on many aspects of art. Miss Zimmern had 
bestowed herself in Florence in 1887, and during my 
own annual sojourns she lived in the Palazzo Buondel- 
monte, in the Piazza Santa Trinita. In this old 
fifteenth-century palace Miss Zimmern had a spacious 
and beautiful apartment, the gem of which was her 
terrace, which looked upon the gardens of the Strozzi, 
and had a distant view of blue mountains. The 
terrace itself, with its awning, its rugs, table and chairs, 
was a summer drawing-room; and a spacious salon 
within made a convenient lecture room. At a period 
when brilliant hues in feminine draperies were less in 
evidence than now, Miss Zimmern would appear for the 
talks in a deep orange-colored costume of strange 

[123] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

design, but one that, if it were a trifle outre then, 
would be quite in keeping with the singularly bizarre 
styles not infrequently seen to-day. Perhaps it was 
a futurist costume. In these flaming draperies, with 
her peculiar individuality, she suggested something 
of the sorceress, in a way pleasing, however, rather 
than otherwise, to the imagination. 

Isabel MacDougall has for many years been one 
of the most distinguished musical artists of Florence. 
Born in Casa Guidi, the only child of the famous di- 
vine, Reverend John Richardson MacDougall, D.D., 
she was yet as truly a Florentine as if she had centuries 
of Italian ancestry behind her. A scholar in a wider 
than ordinary sense; a fine linguist, a critical appre- 
ciator of the world's best literature, Miss MacDougall 
adds all this rich culture to her musical gift. It is no 
exaggeration to call Isabel MacDougall one of the 
great artists, and had the traditions of her family 
allowed her to go on the lyric stage, her rich mezzo- 
soprano voice and rare personal charm must have 
made her one of the world's great singers. In the 
winter of 1900 Miss MacDougall came to Boston as the 
guest of Mrs. James T. Fields, in that wonderful old 
treasure house of literary fame in Charles Street, now 
gone from all save memory. Here Isabel met the 
choicest of Boston society and made hosts of friends. 
Mrs. Howe became very fond of her, and often, in a 
twilight hour, she would sing song after song in Ger- 
man, Italian, French, English, and the wonderful Scotch 
ballads, for Mrs. Howe alone. "It was a privilege," 
she said afterward, when returning to Florence, "to 
sing for such a connoisseur in musical art as was Mrs. 

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Julia Ward Howe." Miss MacDougall had appeared 
once with the Kneisel Quartette, and was about to 
make her second appearance, when a cablegram 
flashed to her the tidings of the serious illness of her 
father, whom she fairly idolized. She caught the 
swiftest steamer sailing to Cherbourg, rushed down on 
the train to Florence, and arrived just fifteen minutes 
after Doctor MacDougall had entered into that fairer 
realm we shall all one day see. She shared his noble 
courage, his unfaltering faith; and putting aside her 
own grief and sense of irreparable loss, she devoted 
herself to comforting and caring for her mother and 
rearranging their plans for living. 

Mrs. MacDougall, happily still living as I write, 
is a typical Scotch gentlewoman. A lady of as excep- 
tional culture as she is of exceptional goodness to every 
human being, she holds a special place in Florentine 
life. During Doctor MacDougall's life they had 
occupied an entire floor of a splendid old palace on the 
Lung' Arno Guicciardini, in one large salon of which 
the church services were held; and this apartment, 
being in the nature of a parsonage, would thus be the 
home of the pastor who should be called to succeed 
Doctor MacDougall. It was one of the most beautiful 
locations in Florence. At night the long line of lights, 
up and down the Arno on both sides, had made a 
fairyland of the scene. The lofty rooms of the palace, 
with their impaneled mirrors, their painted ceilings, 
their carvings and niches for bust or statuette, were 
eloquent of the past. Mrs. and Miss MacDougall 
found a pleasant apartment in the Via dei Serragli, 
overlooking a garden where, in summer nights, the 

[125] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

fireflies darted, to which they migrated with the grand 
piano, the old paintings, and the wealth of books, 
many of which were presentation copies from their 
authors. Closely connected with them by ties of 
the most perfect friendship was Madame la Baronne 
Faverot de Kerbrech, the widow of the distinguished 
French general, who had a villa among the orange 
trees at the foot of Bellosguardo, and who is a fine 
amateur pianist. The households of Mrs. MacDougall 
and of the Baroness became almost as one, each stay- 
ing with the other much of the time. From her 
apartment in the Avenue Kleber, Paris, Madame la 
Baronne flitted in the early spring to her Florentine 
villa, where in February flowers and greenery heralded 
the summer. Mrs. Macdougall and her daughter 
were much in Paris with the Baroness, where Isabel 
entered into the musical life of the French capital. 
Alas! One can only refer to these days now in the 
past tense, as if a century, rather than a mere period 
of four years, had intervened. 

To Lady Paget's kind offices I am indebted for one 
of the priceless friendships along the golden road. 
I met her in the Tornabuoni one late afternoon, and 
she invited me, with Miss MacDougall, to her villa 
to meet her friend and guest from Rome, Donna Roma 
Lister. 

"To hear a suggestion from Lady Paget is to obey," 
I laughingly replied, "especially when obedience is so 
richly rewarded," and in the sunset hour we found 
ourselves driving up the terraced heights of Bellos- 
guardo. The friendship thus initiated in a scene 
whose enchantment of beauty can never be lost by 

[126] 




DONNA ROMA LISTER 
From a photograph 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

those who have entered into its mystic spell continued 
to unfold its entrancements through many future chap- 
ters that were yet to be unrolled in the "Citta Eterna." 
One is always inclined to accept Emerson's assertion 
that, "My friends come to me unsought. The great 
God Himself gave them to me!" 

For more than twenty years, closing with his death 
in 1904, Professor Willard Fiske, formerly of Cornell, 
occupied the villa that had been the home of Walter 
Savage Landor. He kept the classic atmosphere and 
invested it with modern luxury, fitting it up with rugs 
woven in Damascus after the special designs and color- 
ings he himself selected; there were tall Persian vases, 
inlaid cabinets, rare treasures brought from Egypt, 
tapestries, mosaics, old Florentine and Venetian furni- 
ture, and in the marble mantel of one salon he had 
carved the portrait bust of Landor. 

Especially notable was the great Dante and Petrarca 
collection that Professor Fiske had made, including 
numerous first editions and rare copies. With these 
he had, too, a large collection of Icelandic literature; 
and for this incomparable library he secured one floor 
of an old palace on the Lung' il Mugnone, whose 
windows commanded the purple spurs of the Apen- 
nines. This apartment was magnificently furnished 
with immense library tables, maps, globes, and two 
secretaries were in constant attendance. Such a col- 
lection was of the greatest interest to scholars; there 
was here one copy of the Divina Commedia bearing 
the date of 1536: and numerous volumes that could 
not be duplicated in the entire world. It was an 
unsurpassed joy to pass mornings in this wonderful 

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library, and Professor Fiske was most hospitable in 
his permission to the devotees of literature. At his 
death he left this unrivalled collection to Cornell 
University. 

Rather inevitably out of all the magic of this atmos- 
phere a book of mine entitled "The Florence of 
Landor" took shape, the scheme of which aimed to 
present, not the Florence of my own knowledge, but 
the Florence I had never seen, and which lay between 
the dates of Landor's entrance into it in 1821 and 
his death in 1864. That period included years of 
remarkable social brilliancy, when the Brownings, 
the Trollopes, Kate Field, Mrs. Somerville, Mr. and 
Mrs. Lewes (George Eliot), the Hawthornes, Mrs. 
Stowe, Marchesa d'Ossoli (Margaret Fuller), Emerson 
(who visited Florence in the early years of the decade 
of 1831-1840 solely to meet Landor), Frederic Tenny- 
son, the Storys, and other notable people came and 
went. Then, as now, the romance, the tragedy, the 
passionate exaltation and the passionate despair of the 
fifteenth century still lingered. This effort to offer 
some transcription of those days was published in 
1905; and was succeeded in 1907 by another effort 
to embody somewhat of my impressions of the country 
in a volume called "Italy, the Magic Land," ranging 
over Rome, and the notable personalities of the day; 
Assisi, Siena, and all that enchanting southern Italy 
of Naples, Amalfi, Capri. 

Charles Landor, the son of Walter Savage Landor, 
with his wife and his daughter, the charming Madame 
Mancioni, continued to live in Florence, and his death 
only occurred as recently as in 1914. It is his son, 

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Arnold Henry Savage Landor, who is so widely known 
as explorer, author, and lecturer, and whose great 
work, "Across Unknown South America," richly 
illustrated from his own paintings and from photo- 
graphs, is said to be the history of "the most im- 
portant results of any modern exploration." 

The Palazzo Rucellai is one of the most beautiful 
and famous of the old palaces of Florence; and Eddita, 
the present Contessa Rucellai (the daughter of Mrs. 
Arthur Bronson), is one of the most active women of 
the day in the intellectual life of the Flower City. 
To the gracious consideration of Contessa Rucellai 
I had especial reason for being indebted; for when 
(in 1910) I was in Florence in frequent consultations 
with Robert Barrett Browning regarding a work * that 
prefigured itself to me, — a plan of presenting the 
complete life of both Robert Browning and Elizabeth 
Barrett Browning in one volume, — Contessa Rucellai 
immediately offered me the use of all Robert Brown- 
ing's letters to her mother, which comprise some of 
the most interesting expressions of the poet. So there 
were long mornings in the Palazzo Rucellai when I 
copied from these and enjoyed the conversation of 
my hostess. Doctor Dowden's "Life of Browning" 
must forever remain incomparable in its spiritual 
analysis of the poet's genius; other biographies of him, 
of importance, enrich literature; but in all these Mrs. 
Browning was hardly more than incidentally referred 
to; and the thought of giving alternate chapters to 
Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett up to the 

1 The Brownings; Their Life and Art. Boston: Little, Brown, and 
Company, 1911. 

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time of their marriage; then a transcription of that 
wedded idyl of life that lasted for fifteen years, closing 
with her death in 1861; and tracing the remaining 
years of the poet's life until his own passing in 1889, 
incited the sympathetic interest and the ardent co- 
operation of Robert Barrett Browning. 

One of the fascinations of Florence is that one can 
go nowhere without coming upon legend or poetic 
tradition. On the hillside below Fiesole is pointed 
out the very spot (now marked by a shrine) where it 
is believed San Francesco and San Benedetto met; 
and loitering, one brilliant May-day, in a very old 
and long since disused cemetery, I found on a stone 
this curiously touching inscription in ancient Latin: 

Hyeme et Aestate 

Et prope et procul 
Usque dum vivam 

Et ultra! 

of which a rather free translation runs: 

Summer and winter 

Near and far 
So long as I live 

And beyond! 

After that what can be said? 



[130] 



VI 

SOCIAL SEASONS IN ROME 

"Great is life, great and mystical, wherever and whoever." 

Walt Whitman 

MY own first visit to Rome was, of all times, in 
August, when the city is supposed to be quite 
uninhabitable. In Paris a telegram came one morning 
from some Chicago friends who had landed at Naples 
and were taking Italy on their way north: a telegram 
that announced, "Rome is cooler than Paris; come"; 
and an instant response flashed back that I would 
start that evening. Down through the sublime scen- 
ery of the Mont Cenis pass; a night's pause at Genoa, 
arriving at Rome in the early morning, — it was all 
as bewildering as a journey through the starry spaces. 
And what a carnival of sight-seeing we all enjoyed! 
Socially, Rome was deserted, and there was nothing 
else to do; and a very favorable time it was for all 
that preliminary survey that one never cares to repeat. 
One descends into the catacombs of St. Calixtus; 
makes the tour of Castel Angelo, lingers in the cell 
where Beatrice Cenci was confined; sees the ghastly 
crypt of the Capuchini, and a myriad other things 
pertaining to ancient Rome which he feels it his duty 
to himself to see once, but which are then checked off, 
as a finality. He may even attempt the prescribed 

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ascent of Scala Santa on his knees, if he be of a particu- 
larly adventurous or literal turn of mind; but, at all 
events, these things are mere preliminaries. On the 
other hand, to linger in the Pantheon, to stand in the 
Coliseum watching the swallows flit above against 
a background of blue sky; to gaze upon the wonderful 
frescoes in San Lorenzo; to drive over the rough 
Appian Way, with pauses at the tomb of Cecilia 
Metella; to visit the ancient chiesa of Santa Agnese 
and linger in its underground sanctuary; to drive 
on the Campagna with its magnificent ruins turned to 
a vivid scarlet by the afternoon sun, — all these may 
repeat themselves. Yet all the tourist excursions are 
no more Rome than Bunker Hill Monument and the 
Common are Boston. To know Rome, in the infinite 
interest of the Pinacoteca Vaticana; in the splendid 
sculpture of the galleries, the magnificent salons of 
the Villa Medici; the churches, the excursions, and 
above all the life, is an occupation for uncounted years. 
When I first knew the Vedders, they were living 
in the Capo le Casa, a street running down the 
steep slope from the Via Sistina to the Corso. Their 
apartment was reached by five flights of stairs; and 
on a ring at the ground floor, a basket was let down 
from one of their windows in which cards might be 
placed. There was no elevator, yet after climbing 
the stairs the visitor found that the game was worth 
the candle. They had that poetry of Rome, a terrace, 
from which not only fresh air and some degree of 
exercise could be enjoyed, but which also commanded 
a view of wonderful beauty. Paintings by Mr. Vedder 
and many gifts from his brother artists gave the rooms 

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distinction, and Miss Vedder's art of tapestry weaving 
was in evidence. She became famous for her redis- 
covery of the ancient art, and much of her work 
adorns beautiful homes in the States. Mrs. Vedder 
was the devoted inspirer of the household life, making 
and keeping the conditions harmonious for the art 
work of her husband and daughter; reading the books 
they had not always time for, and passing on their 
contents conversationally; writing Mr. Vedder's let- 
ters, a task to which he had personal objections to ever 
entering on himself, and also usually succeeding in 
what she laughingly called the hardest work of her 
married life, — that of inducing her husband to rise in 
the morning. Mr. Vedder had the same temper- 
amental objections to entering on active participation 
in the day and daylight duties that he had to letter 
writing; but the lover of his art will concede that when 
he does rise, it is to some purpose. Considering this 
preference, it was little short of a psychological phe- 
nomenon when, at the age of seventy, Mr. Vedder 
began rising at five in the morning to write poems. 
He had never written a line of verse in his life, nor 
any other line that he could escape, and he had even 
expressed the opinion that it would be a consum- 
mation devoutly to be wished if all literature could be 
reduced to a cablegram. Yet here was the artist 
invading the morning at the most heroic hours, betak- 
ing himself to his little study for his tryst with the 
Muses, while his daughter, Anita, with her bronze- 
brown hair and the light of the Italian stars in her 
eyes, declared that her father "lived in solitude in the 
bosom of his family." In addition to the verses, 

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came "The Digressions of V." When it was whis- 
pered about Rome that Mr. Vedder was writing a book, 
it was as incredible as if he had been building an 
aeroplane to rise through the Seventh Gate to the 
throne of Saturn. In fact, that would have been so 
truly Vedderesque as to be quite conceivable. 

I recall late afternoons when I was privileged to 
trip down the steep hill of the Porta Pinciani from my 
hotel, to the Vedders', and to be shown into the artist's 
study and listen to the poems that he had captured 
since my last call. Apparently they rose before him 
like Banquo's ghost. One that ended with the lines, — 

"And on the stretching Appian Way 
The drowsy shepherds pipe all day 
While basking lizards lie," 

I especially liked, — all but the "lizards." 

"Is there nothing more agreeable out there," I asked, 
"than those horrid things?" 

"You don't like lizards?" exclaimed Mr. Vedder. 
"Why, a lizard is the very poetry of Rome!" One 
may be silenced, but not convinced. 

Within more recent years the Vedders have re- 
moved to a delightful apartment in the Via Porta 
Pinciani, where the windows overlook the rose gardens 
of the Villa Malta and its mediaeval wall, hidden by 
masses of riotous bloom. This change was largely 
for the greater comfort of Mrs. Vedder, whose failing 
health saddened her friends; but it was less than a 
month after they were installed in this new and lovely 
place before she passed on to the fairer realm and her 
body was tenderly laid in that little cemetery whose 

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beauty made Shelley in love with death. Mrs. Vedder 
(Carrie Rosencrans) was a woman of exceptional 
qualities, with her intellectual grasp and her executive 
ability. The summer home of the Vedders, on Capri, 
the "Torre Quatre Venti," had always given her the 
greatest enjoyment, with its enchanting views over the 
blue water to Naples, terraced on the heights, and 
Sorrento in the golden west. This villa was a pictur- 
esque combination of towers and terraces, and at the 
top was a lofty studio for Mr. Vedder, which he could 
enter from the terrace without passing through the 
house. Robert Hichens, in his romance, "A Spirit in 
Prison," has glorified all this seaside region of Naples. 
It seems that the Torre Quatre Venti quite lived up 
to its name, and indulged itself in winds that would 
have immortalized the "Tower of the Winds" in 
ancient Athens. Mr. Vedder, with his new-found 
power as a poet, thus pictured them: 

"They blow from North, they blow from South 
And likewise from the East and West; 
And all so pleasantly, the while, 

'Tis hard to say which wind is best." 

The Saturday afternoon receptions at Mr. Vedder's 
studio in Rome always brought together a congenial 
company. At one time he had as a working studio 
the Villa Strohl Fern, outside the Porta del Popolo, 
among the hillslopes, with greenery trailing over the 
walls, and his pictures and sketches made it a memor- 
able art gallery. Mrs. Vedder and their daughter 
made tea, and artists and literary folk, and many 
Italians, titled and untitled, eagerly availed themselves 

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of the privilege of the artist's conversation as well as 
that of studying his unique and impressive work. 
There is an indescribable spell of fascination in a 
Vedder picture, of which its artist holds the secret. 
One is swift to feel the effect; it defies analysis. 

The story of Mr. Vedder 's incomparable illustrations 
for the Rubaiyat is a wonderful instance of the power 
of the subconscious. Long before they went to Rome, 
when they were living in Perugia, in the Villa Uffre- 
duzzi, an artist friend, Mr. Ellis, came to call, bringing 
with him the Fitzgerald translation of Omar Khayyam. 
This was Mr. Vedder's first introduction to the poem, 
which Mr. Ellis read aloud. "And he was a man who 
could read," said the artist, "and even convert Chaucer 
into a musical flow of melody." They would sit out 
on the terrace, pouring libations of wine out of an 
old Etruscan cup, while the sunset lights gleamed 
over the great plain stretching to Assisi, and the 
sudden Italian twilight fell. The precipitous height 
of Assisi, crowned by that wonderful memorial church 
the San Francesco, with its long cloisters, standing on 
a spur of the Apennines, loomed up in the air, spectral 
against the sky. Mr. Vedder describes how in the 
afternoons curious cloud shapes and strange atmos- 
pheric phenomena invested all this region; and now 
these effects unconsciously blended in his mind with 
Omar's quatrains, as his friend read them aloud. It 
was thus that his marvelous creations illustrating the 
poem first began to form themselves in his mind. 
But who may essay any interpretation of Elihu Vedder 
unless he take the key that the artist himself gives us 
in one of his sonnets? 

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"As some unnoticed mountain, silent and apart, 

Standing for centuries, a monument of peace, 
Suddenly, without warning, furiously breaks out 

Pouring the glowing lava from its burning heart, 
So have I stood in silence all my former days 

And only now pour out my heart's long-treasured lays; 
Perhaps 'tis better so; the lava's glow 

Against the coming night will brighter show!" 

Robert Hugh Benson, that fascinating, vivid and 
altogether unaccountable personality, was to be met 
from time to time in Rome. He was full of surprises 
and contradictions, with health undermined by his 
extreme asceticism, whose dramatic requirements of 
life were their own compensation to him. He de- 
manded the moving drama of every day, yet he was 
a mystic, a visionary; he was mediaeval and yet 
capable of the clearest reasoning, at times, with a 
naivete, a warmth of friendliness and sincerity which 
won all hearts. The son of the Lord Bishop of Lincoln 
who became an Archbishop of Canterbury, bred in 
the traditions of Lambeth Palace, he became an 
ardent devotee of the Catholic communion in which 
he found "absolute spiritual peace." The stately 
ceremonials were temperamentally grateful to him. 
He loved pageantry, but it was the spiritual mystery 
behind the pageantry that held his allegiance. At 
one time he was announced to lecture in the great 
hall of the Cancelleria. The occasion was like a scene 
on the stage. Velvet armchairs were placed in the 
few front rows for the Cardinals and other dignitaries 
of the Church and for the great ladies of Catholic 
Rome. Principessas and duchessas and marchesas 

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were numerous. As each lady came she dropped on 
her knees before her Cardinal and kissed his ring before 
taking her seat. Monsignor Benson sat behind a 
small table and apologized to his audience for not 
standing on account of illness. His face was thin, 
his eyes brilliant, his manner restless in the extreme. 
He spread his arms out over the table; he leaned back 
in his chair; he half rose and fell again into his seat. 
And all this time his words poured forth in rapid 
torrents. His theme was his reasons for embracing 
Catholicism; and his eloquence was brilliant if not 
persuasive. On the celebration of a Cardinals' mass, 
in San Giovanni Laterani, he participated with eager 
joy, the impressive procession of the Blessed Sacra- 
ment satisfying his intense craving for ceremony. 
The choir sang the Palestrina music, so exquisite 
that it might have come from Paradise, and he closed 
his eyes in rapture as he listened. Meeting him once 
as a fellow guest at a dejeuner in Rome, where the 
hostess was a Church of England woman and an old 
friend of the Benson family, his manner was com- 
pletely changed from that of the restless, vehement 
lecturer. He had, indeed, a relay of personalities, 
yet no aspect of his nature was without this prevailing 
intensity of demand on life. He was a prolific writer 
of Catholic fiction, but he utterly and con intenzione 
ignored the art of the novelist. His stories are rather 
argumentative presentations of his faith thrown into 
dialogue form. Apparently he believed that to be 
the more popular way of presenting his plea. In 
Rome he attached himself to the church of San 
Silvestre, the church entered through an arcade, 

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leading into the atrium that dates back twelve cen- 
turies. San Silvestre had been the scene, in past 
ages, of terrific deeds of violence; and Monsignor 
Benson declared, in a private conversation, that he 
never entered it without being conscious of violent 
and opposing forces. Perhaps in no other city in the 
world does the past so blend with the present and 
seem fairly incorporated into its very texture as in 
Rome. 

While Rome is not so rich in pictorial art as is Flor- 
ence, yet it is here that one finds the best of Michael 
Angelo and Raphael in museums and churches. For 
not only in the Raphael Stanze in the Vatican does one 
study the imperishable genius of this artist in that 
supreme work, the Transfiguration, but his celebrated 
Sibyls are m the church of Santa Maria della Pace; 
the Isaiah in San Agostino, and the Entombment in 
the galleries of the Villa Borghese, where visitors in 
Rome often congregate on Sunday afternoon. The 
picturesque scheme of sculptures and buildings on the 
Campidoglio, where once stood the shrine of Jupiter 
Capitolinus, is due to Michael Angelo. The long flights 
of steps leading from the Piazza Aracoeli to the Capi- 
toline, where the ancient equestrian statue of Marcus 
Aurelius keeps guard; where the statues of Castor 
and Pollux define the portals; where the Muses stand 
— all this classic grouping of art and architecture 
speak the genius that summoned it into being. 

Rome is so rich in sight seeing that no prolonged 
residence exhausts the ardor. The Signora Ciocca 
(all' illustrissima) , a sister of the late Professor Lang- 
ley of the Smithsonian Institute, laughingly related 

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that she and her Italian husband debated as to whether 
they should remodel their villa, or buy a motor car; 
and that their interest as sight-seers, despite their 
permanent residence, was so keen that they preferred 
the car. "We start out with the avidity of newly- 
arrived tourists," added the Signora; "and we are 
always finding out things of which we had not 
dreamed." The decision in favor of the motor car 
might well have been a matter of congratulation to 
the friends of the Ciocca, as well, they so generously 
invited others to share their pleasure. 

One afternoon on the Campagna photographed itself 
in my memory. We had enjoyed a long sweep over 
that wonderful plain that surrounds Rome, every inch 
of which is historic ground, faring forth from the Porta 
San Giovanni to Frascati, and on to Albano, Castel 
Gondolpho, and Lago di Nemi (beneath whose green 
waters is still supposed to be the barque of Caligula), 
and on to the slopes where JEneas landed. Between 
Rome and Frascati were scattered the magnificent 
ruins of the Claudian aqueducts, whose pillars and 
arches turned to gold and scarlet under the brilliant 
sun. Far in the distance was the faint violet line of 
the Alban hills. We passed the Torre di Mezza 
and lingered to gaze on "the weird watcher of the 
Campagna." The infinite spaces of plain and sky, 
with the vast dome of St. Peter's on the horizon; 
the green slopes that broke the level, like billows of the 
sea, all glowing with masses of scarlet poppies; and 
far in the distance the summits of snow-crowned moun- 
tains, all made up such a picture as could never be 
forgotten. 

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One morning in Rome memorable to me was that on 
which Mr. Waldo Story took me to his studios to see 
the casts of nearly all the important works of his 
father, William Wetmore Story. It was specially 
interesting to see his two Sibyls, the Cumsean and the 
Libyan, — the latter with its air of sinister mystery. 
The Cleopatra and a few other works had been familiar 
in New York, but rather largely Mr. Story's statues 
went into the great private collections in England and 
were not known to the American public. Waldo 
Story was himself a sculptor with a charming array 
of work, though largely of the decorative order. There 
was the fountain he had created for the Rothschild 
estate in England, — a Galatea in bronze, standing 
in a marble shell drawn by nereids and attended by 
cupids. Another fountain was a design of the 
"Nymphs Drinking at the Fountain of Love." There 
was a portrait bust of Cecil Rhodes, who had been 
a classmate of Mr. Story's at Oxford. The sculptor 
spoke of him with enthusiasm, as a man of singularly 
noble character and splendid enterprise; not an 
empire-builder in a sense of personal ambition and 
aggrandizement, but as one who saw life on a large 
scale, and who was instinct with energy to create far- 
reaching issues. 

To come into a closer knowledge of the elder Story's 
work as represented by the casts of his numerous stat- 
ues, groups, and busts, was to understand why his 
daughter, the Marchesa Peruzzi de' Medici, felt that 
Henry James, in his semi-biographical work, "William 
Wetmore Story and His Friends," had done scant 
justice to her father's art, and that he merited higher 

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rank in plastic creation than that assigned him by Mr. 
James. This may well be, for Mr. Story was a man of 
much versatility of genius, and not unnaturally his lit- 
erary gift appealed to Mr. James more strongly than 
his sculpture. But the peculiar charm of Mr. James' 
book defies analysis; it presents a series of pictures, 
that rise like magic, of that wonderful life of the Storys 
and their friends in the Palazzo Barberini. 

It was sometime after this morning in the Story 
studios that the announcement came of the sale of 
all the household effects of William Wetmore Story 
that had continued to remain after his death in the 
forty rooms of their apartment in the Palazzo Bar- 
berini. "Let us go and see these rooms," said Grace 
Ellery Channing (Mrs. Charles Walter Stetson) to me; 
for we had both heard from childhood of this apart- 
ment and the guests who frequented it. 

The Stetsons lived in the Piazza Barberini, in an 
apartment reached by five flights of stone stairs, 
which proved no barrier to their friends, for were not 
Charles Walter and Grace Channing Stetson at the 
top? It was delightful to drop into Mrs. Stetson's 
little salon in the late afternoon, for tea and talk with 
the artist and his wife, whose addiction to writing 
poetry and romance left her none the worse as a con- 
versationalist and a friend. Like all artists, daylight 
was golden to them, and to that end it became their 
habit to rise early in the morning. In the late after- 
noon, they were always ready for the habitues who 
loved to climb to their Arcady; but there were others 
who besieged them in the evening; and to make an 
evening call is, to an Italian, to arrive about the 

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Christian hour for going to sleep. "Our evening 
callers come just as we are about putting out the 
lights," laughed Mrs. Stetson, "and then they stay all 
night!" To the native Italian, two o'clock in the 
morning is not at all an improbable hour to terminate 
a visit. 

To Mrs. Stetson and myself it was easy to identify 
many of the rooms of the Story apartment. There 
was one salon in yellow brocade, walls, furniture, all, 
even to the tea table laden with all the paraphernalia 
for afternoon tea, that had served English duchesses 
and Italian princesses, poets and artists, and guests 
of many claims to distinction; there was a guest room 
which we felt sure had been the one occupied by the 
Brownings, for a few days, one season, until they 
could find an apartment. There was the private 
theater where the play written by Harriet Hosmer 
had been given, in amateur theatricals. What a 
commentary on the rich life that had been lived there 
were these deserted rooms! Everything was ticketed 
for sale, even to a lamp bracket. As we were about 
leaving, we came into a room where some one had 
wound up a discarded music box that was in the 
form of a soldier with a plumed hat. The tinkling 
tune in the discordant mechanism ran on, and with 
mutual accord we seated ourselves in silence on a 
sofa to listen to the end. Like a thing of life it would 
stop, then catch up the note again, and at last — 
"the rest was silence." It was like a dirge that marked 
the end of the lovely life of the Storys in that most 
splendid of Roman palaces. 

Nine years of work in which he revelled was given 
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to Charles Walter Stetson in Rome before his too 
early and pathetic death. Mr. Stetson was just 
entering on a gratifying recognition, having made an 
exhibition in Paris that inspired amazing praise from 
some of the best French critics who felt that his glory 
of color and pervading beauty recalled traditions of 
the old Italian masters. Diego Angeli, the foremost 
art critic of Italy, wrote that he "loved the tremendous 
light" in these pictures. There was one idyllic scene, 
— a festa under the ilex trees in a luminous atmosphere 
with sunshine shimmering through the trees, upon 
dancers in joyous abandon, — that especially charmed 
all lovers of Italy. Another work of note was his 
"Beggars," showing a procession of Cardinals in their 
rich robes that contrasted with a mass of mendicants 
who seemed to sink into darkness before the eye, 
a curious effect. The King of Italy purchased one 
picture of Mr. Stetson's, and it hangs in the palace 
of the Quirinale. By some necromancy of art Mr. 
Stetson had really painted Italian atmosphere before 
he had ever seen Italy. Of New England nativity, 
he was so temperamentally akin to Italy as easily 
to assimilate her atmosphere. Between Mr. Stetson 
and Mr. Vedder there was a warm friendship based 
on their mutual sympathies in the realm of imaginative 
creation. 

Never had the mortal body of painter or poet a 
more romantic disposition than that of Mr. Stetson. 
After cremation in Rome, Mrs. Stetson and the young 
daughter of his first marriage sailed for the States, 
carrying the ashes with them; and one night while 
they were still on the Mediterranean that he so loved, 

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the wife and daughter went alone to the upper deck, 
under a midnight moon, with no one near, and rever- 
ently scattered the ashes on the blue waters of this 
tideless sea. 

Franklin Simmons was one of the notable American 
artists in Rome, where he had lived for nearly fifty 
years before his death in 1913; and he had been 
decorated by the Crown with the title of Commenda- 
tore della corona d' Italia, the next to the highest 
honor in the gift of the King, the highest being that of 
the Order of the Annunziata, so rarely bestowed. 
The great studios of Mr. Simmons were fairly galleries 
of his own art; works of ideal beauty, — all of which 
he left to the art museum of Portland, Maine, that 
they might found a "Simmons Gallery"; his fortune 
was to be used for the transportation of his sculpture 
from Rome to Portland and to endow this gallery. 
Before the provisions of his will could be carried out, 
the war opened; and at this writing all his work is 
still housed in his Roman studios, awaiting the ful- 
fillment of his bequest when the world shall have 
emerged from its period of overwhelming tragedy. 

On the seventieth birthday of Mr. Simmons I had 
the pleasure of making a little festa in his honor. 
A notable group of his special friends gathered. Mrs. 
Simmons, an accomplished musician and a favorite 
social figure, had passed from earth a few years 
before. The Boston custom of invoking the Muses 
on the occasion of birthday festivities had laid its 
spell upon me, and I ventured to read this bit of rhyme 
written for the occasion, however little it may have 
warranted a place in that golden afternoon. 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

The snowdrifts and frosts of the Pine-Tree State 

Where our friend first opened his eyes, 
Are linked to-night with the radiant light, 

Of the blue Italian skies; 
For he followed his Star unto lands afar 

And he gave all the powers of his youth, — 
No trial or hardship his progress could bar 

In his service of Art or of Truth. 

The Citba Eterna received him as one 

Of her own, by a right divine; 
He came to her as a loyal son, 

To worship at Beauty's shrine; 
He gave her all gifts, his life and his love, 

His genius, his tireless devotion; 
And his noble work is a heritage rare 

To Art, on both shores of the ocean. 

The panorama of Roman years 

In its changeful gifts and grace 
Has brought to him sorrows, and joys, and tears, 

In common with all the race; 
It has taxed his endurance, rewarded his power; 

It has given him world-wide fame; 
And the gods, who companion his every hour, 

Unite with us all in acclaim. 

And She, who was beauty, and music, and love; 

Whose presence lent radiance rare 
To the sculptor's life, as he toiled alone, 

Amid visions that filled the air, — 
She is evermore near, in her new-found grace, 

Of ineffable sweetness and light; 
Almost can we catch the smile on her face, 

As she joins in our tribute to-night. 

The service of Art is the worship divine 
The spirit of man to uphold; 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

Through Art he approaches the heavenly shrine, 

Whose portals are topaz and gold. 
O, Sculptor! True artist! whose statues may stand 

In their marvelous beauty supreme, — 
The maiden who looks on the fair "Promised Land"; 

"Galatea," aroused from her dream, — 

The "Mother of Moses," whose mystical eyes 

Seem to gaze into long-coming years, — 
Seem to read all the future, foretold to arise, 

For her child, with its triumphs and fears, — 
The "Genius of Progress," which nobly proclaims 

That Wrong shall forevermore fail, 
That Evil is conquered and riven in chains, 

That the Powers of the Good shall prevail, — 

And "Penelope," fair in her wistful surprise, 

That Ulysses should tarry so long; 
The radiant "Angel," whose wonderful eyes 

Flash forth all the joy and the song 
Of the life more abundant; of all that awaits 

Which the artist's high dreams have foretold; 
All these dreams shall be real when we pass through the gates 

To the City of Jasper and Gold! 

The studios of Moses Ezekiel, another American 
sculptor, a native of Virginia, were in the ruins of the 
old Baths of Caracalla, a picturesque haunt of "Rome. 
Mr. Ezekiel was one of the most courteous and accom- 
plished hosts, and he had a genius for entertaining. 
He was unmarried and had his living rooms as well as 
his studios in this ruin. The rooms were lighted by 
small windows at the top of the wall; sconces were 
screwed in for candles that illuminated his rooms with 
the soft light; his salon contained bookcases stocked 
with a wealth of books in vellum and Russia leather, 

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and a long table seating more than forty persons at 
which he delighted to give his friends a supper after 
one of his musicales. From the ceiling hung masses 
of flowers encircled by lights; the candles in antique 
sconces threw their flickering glow over strange an- 
tiques and fragments of ruined marbles. On those 
walls of Diocletian's were the frescoes of bygone ages, 
and the floor was made of tiles fifteen hundred years 
old. A grand piano, a harp, a violin, on all of which 
Mr. Ezekiel himself played, were in evidence. The 
fireplace was excavated out of the solid rock in which, 
above, shelves were cut. On these shelves were an- 
cient vases, Etruscan cups, tablets standing upright, 
slabs of marble with ancient inscriptions, sketches and 
pictures and photographs alta moderna. It is safe to 
assert that Mr. Ezekiel's studios and salon were the 
most unique interiors in all Home. 

Mr. Ezekiel was singularly versatile in his gifts. 
As a sculptor his work was marked by exquisiteness 
of finish, a refinement, a beauty of feeling, and his 
wonderful group of Homer suggested a still loftier 
power. For in this work the sculptor had certainly 
caught the very spirit of antiquity. The figure of 
Homer was of heroic size, in a seated pose, represented 
as reciting from the Iliad, beating time with his hands. 
At his feet was his guide, a youthful Egyptian, who 
holds a lyre. One fine example of his work is a recum- 
bent figure of the Christ in which the delicacy and 
reverent ardor of the artist are felt by the observer. 
He had unusual social gifts, and no artist was more 
welcome in society than Mr. Ezekiel. He invested 
those musical evenings in his studio with memorable 

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charm, and brought the warmth and graciousness of 
his native Virginia into his Roman home. 

Nor could one forget pleasant hours with Mrs. 
John Elliott, the "Maud Howe" of Boston name and 
fame, whose apartment was cheerfully approached 
through long corridors lined with Etruscan tombs. 
This apartment, with its terrace looking out on St. 
Peter's, had an added interest in that it was the Roman 
domicile of Mrs. Elliott's cousin, Marion Crawford, 
the novelist, who loaned it to the Elliotts, as he was 
then in his Sorrento villa. Mr. Elliott was engaged 
upon an important art commission, and he found Rome 
the fitting environment for the creative work. Mrs. 
Elliott, with her magnetic charm of presence, was a 
potent influence in intellectual and artistic life. She 
had, I believe, more than a formal acquaintance with 
Margherita, Regina Madre, whose sympathy with art 
and artists was part of her gracious personality. 

Driving home one night at the witching hour of 
two a.m. (not in the least an infrequent hour to emerge 
from a Roman dinner party) with the Contessa Fren- 
fanelli-Cybo, we paused in front of the ancient Pan- 
theon whose only eye of glass looks from the roof to the 
sky; and we half expected to see a train of spectral 
figures issue forth. Yet the stillness was hardly 
broken save by the plashing of the fountain of Trevi 
which was near, and into which many a sojourner in 
Rome flings a penny, as he tastes the water, in accord 
with the tradition that thus shall he visit Rome again. 
To feel that history which is written on the air of the 
city, that is voiced by the mighty structures, the ruins, 
the vistas, the monuments, no time equals a midnight 

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drive through the silent and deserted streets. It is 
a profound and impressive experience. 

The ceremonial dinner is at nine, in Rome, and on 
this particular occasion it had been given by Donna 
Roma Lister in the Palazzo Senni, just across the Tiber 
from the grim Castel San Angelo. Donna Roma occu- 
pied the primo piano of the palace, and one ascended 
the colossal staircase under the watchful gaze of a 
great statue of Caesar Augustus. The apartment 
was very interesting in rare souvenirs; for Donna 
Roma's mother came of an English family of great 
distinction, and she enjoyed the personal friendship 
of Queen Victoria, manifestations of which were in 
evidence in two signed drawings by the Queen which 
had been wedding gifts; and a crayon portrait of the 
Empress Frederick, autographed. Three beautiful 
salons were en suite lined with pictures, busts, statu- 
ettes, tapestries; on a tall pedestal beyond the grand 
piano was a life-size portrait bust of Lady Paget; 
the dining room was hung with old family portraits; 
the library was attended by an Italian youth whose 
familiarity with books in several languages enabled 
him to produce those asked for at a moment's notice. 
Donna Roma's boudoir was hung with yellow satin 
damask, and was bewilderingly attractive with its 
inlaid desk and cabinets and the myriad articles of 
vertu that the resident in Rome is apt to collect. 

Among the guests on this night had been Mrs. 
Hoare of London, the widow of the head of the banking 
house of the Hoare Brothers, and a special friend of 
Archdeacon Wilberforce, and also of Mrs. Ellicott, 
the widow of the Lord Bishop of Gloucester, and her 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

daughter Rosamond. Mrs. Hoare had never visited 
the States; but she was interested in the intellectual 
and literary activities of this country, with which she 
had familiarized herself by an unusually intimate ac- 
quaintance with American literature. She had known 
Lowell, too, and many of the most distinguished 
American visitors to London. Mrs. Hoare was espe- 
cially interested in the work of the Society for Psychical 
Research, and Frederick Myers had been one of her 
nearer friends. The conversation at dinner turned 
somewhat on these themes, and the Principessa 
d'Antuni, whose husband was a son of the Prince del 
Drago, related a curious experience. The Principessa 
was a princess in her own right, before her marriage 
to the Principe d'Antuni. She came from Northern 
Italy, and related that on the first evening when she 
entered the old Palazzo del Drago as a bride, she was 
alone in one of the salons for a little time, and the 
Spanish lady, who had been her husband's first wife, 
came to her (in all sweet friendliness) and gave her 
a certain prophecy which she repeated that night 
at the dinner table, and which had already come true. 
Another guest, a Professor in the University of Rome, 
had known Mr. Myers, whose death came in Rome in 
1901; and he spoke at some length of the peculiar 
alertness and brilliancy of thought that had character- 
ized this poet and thinker. In that poetic and beauti- 
ful little English cemetery in Rome a tablet has been 
placed to the memory of Frederick Myers, with the 
words: "He asked life of Thee, and Thou gavest 
him long life forever and ever." Italian life is full 
of experiences that have to do with the borderland of 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

the unseen, and the topic is fruitful of narrations of 
experiences, many of which, like that of the Princi- 
pessa d'Antuni, rival even the narrations of Florence 
Marryatt. 

An "audience" with the Pope is something only 
granted to special claim; but the consistory, where 
some twenty men and women may be received to- 
gether, is fairly attainable to any one who has friends 
in touch with the Vatican. And the opportunity of 
penetrating into the private salons of the Palazzo 
Vaticano is one invested with interest. The superb 
scala regia, now closed, was open to visitors on the 
occasion that I recall. Passing up this sculptured 
flight, those who came for the consistory were con- 
ducted through several rooms of the private apartment 
of the Vatican and finally seated in one, in chairs 
stiffly disposed about the walls. The rooms we passed 
through were in no wise remarkable, holding little 
beyond pictures, a table with a tall crucifix, and 
chairs. The virtues of the Vatican palace did not, 
apparently, include punctuality, and we all sat, in 
a temperature quite below the American idea of com- 
fort, for some two hours before His Holiness appeared. 
Women who attend these functions must be clothed in 
black, with black lace alone over the head. It is the 
custom to bring one's jewels, crosses especially, to have 
them blessed by the Pope. When the Holy Father 
entered, clad in white, and preceded only by a bishop 
in his violet robes, every one knelt, and he passed 
around the circle, placing his hands on the head of 
each and invoking a blessing. Pope Pius X was very 
gracious in manner, and smiled as we offered him our 

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various little tokens to be blessed. He was so short 
as to look almost boyish in figure, and his face, without 
beauty or perhaps much distinction, was most kindly 
and serene. 

An Embassy ball is always an occasion of social 
interest; and a brilliant one given by the United 
States Ambassador and Mrs. Henry White lingers 
among my memory pictures. The Embassy was then 
in the old Palazzo del Drago; and there were titled 
guests of the Roman nobility; here and there an Emi- 
nence, in his scarlet robes, who was still, according 
to the old custom, preceded on his departure by two 
servants bearing flaming torches. Carolus Duran, 
then the director of the French Academy, was magnif- 
icent in all his jewelled orders. He was a short man, 
inclined to stoutness, but bearing himself with great 
dignity, and having an exquisite courtesy of manner. 
Miss Elise Emmons of England, a granddaughter of 
Honorable Wayman Crow of St. Louis, was passing 
that winter in Rome, and her presence at the ball that 
night added much of interest. The Ambassador and 
Mrs. White made the Embassy one of the lovely cen- 
ters of social life. 

When Monsieur Albert Besnard succeeded Carolus 
Duran as director of the French Academy, the event 
created a stir of interest. For Rome was fully aware 
of that new phase of French, Italian, and Spanish art 
represented by Boutet de Monvel, Boldini, Degas, and 
Besnard, the latter of whom was held to have initi- 
ated a new movement which was the transition between 
Impressionism and the art ushered in with the twen- 
tieth century. In the Salon of 1898 Besnard had 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

exhibited a portrait of Madame Jourdain, seen by the 
golden light of a shaded lamp while a blue-gray twi- 
light still shone through the window, — a portrait 
with a sort of iridescence, whose witchery and necro- 
mancy held captive the gazer. Monsieur Besnard 
painted with his mind as well as with his palette. 
He was scientific, he was ethical, he was imbued with 
enthusiasm for a new social ideal. His decorative 
scheme for the Salle des Sciences, in the Hotel de Ville 
in Paris, had taken for his theme, "Science spreads 
light over the universe." He fairly painted the air 
and motion and the lyrical aspects of cosmic mystery. 
So with all this interest investing his name, it is not 
strange that he was hailed in Rome as the prophet of 
a new era. Some years before he had sent to New 
York a number of his Symbolist works, which I had 
the good fortune to see, and later, in Paris, his wonder- 
ful portrait of Madame Re jane, in a pink gown with 
roses, one of which has fallen and seems about to be 
swept away by her advancing tread, another instance 
of almost painting motion. This portrait had led to 
my being privileged to meet the artist and his wife, 
— Madame Besnard being also an artist, — and enjoy- 
ing one or two little visits at their home in Paris. 
After their establishment in the Villa Medici they 
gave an evening reception that always stands out in 
my mind among Roman festivities. The entrance 
hall of the villa was hung with priceless Gobelin tapes- 
tries, and the salons were distinctive with Italian 
art. The French Ambassador and Madame Barriere, 
Sir Rennell and Lady Rodd, Principessa d'Antuni 
the Chilian Minister and Madame Aldunate, the 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

Swiss Minister and Madame Pioda, Donna Roma 
Lister, Miss Elise Emmons, Madame Matilde Serrao, 
the novelist, and Monsignor Duschennes were among 
the guests. The evening was one of those memorable 
ones that shine as luminous hours along the Golden 
Road. 



[155] 



VII 
DAYS IN ATHENS AND ALGIERS 

"Radiant, violet-crowned, by minstrels sung, 
Bulwark of Hellas, Athens illustrious." 

Pindar 

TO meet Monsieur Venizelos was an event, even in 
the prehistoric days of 1913, before the tragic 
sequences of the assassination of King George and the 
oncoming of the war which has engulfed Europe had 
brought the Greek Premier so prominently before the 
world. Even at that time he was easily the first 
personality in Greece, and there was associated with 
him some vague but persistent expectancy of unusual 
developments whose nature was not formulated. I first 
saw him at an official reception where I found myself 
with a Greek friend, Monsieur Panagiates Kalogero- 
poulos, Conservateur de la Bibliotheque de la Cham- 
bre des Deputes Hellenique; and there was something 
in the Premier that immediately arrested the atten- 
tion, quite apart, too from his high office. Some 
prophetic glamour suggested that in him was a 
new power for the Hellenes. He had a singular 
air of detachment from the general atmosphere as 
of one who directed its forces, but was not entangled 
with them. He conveyed a sense of alertness; 
of a current of fairly volcanic energy held well in 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

abeyance and under perfect control, but which might 
summon at will the forces that are resistless. For 
good, or for ill, here was no ordinary man. But 
there was no question of ill; he inspired trust. He 
seemed to have some prescience of great surprises, 
undreamed-of revelations not far off in the undescried 
future; and to be communing with his own soul as 
to the destinies. One was impressed by this air of 
awareness of a future that neither he, nor any man, 
had seen. Did he catch some glimpse of a Hand- 
writing on the Wall, invisible to all others? Were 
there voices from the gods of Hellas that called to 
him alone? Had there risen on his vision possibilities 
incredible even to his own consciousness? Some 
prescience of the tragic future that was really so near, 
yet so unheralded, was in the air. The courteous, 
penetrating glance; the irresistibly winning smile, 
and that gentleness which is so peculiarly the character- 
istic of his race quite equalled the splendid brilliancy, 
the enthralling power of the Greek statesman. 

Eleutherios Venizelos was born in Crete in 1864. 
His father was of good family and had been prominent 
in Unionist movements for which he had been exiled 
from his native city. He designed his son for a com- 
mercial career, but the favoring influence intervened 
in the person of M. Zigomalas, the Greek Consul 
General, who saw the young man's promise and 
induced his father to send him to the University of 
Athens, where he graduated and later pursued some 
special studies at Lausanne. During these student 
days his zeal centered in statecraft. He had a passion 
for the pursuit of diplomatic combinations. These 

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fascinated his imagination as the realm of composition 
beckons to the musical genius. He was absorbed by 
diplomatic art and craft, as is a mathematician by 
figures. He was in temperamental response with his 
future destiny. 

In 1886 he took his seat in the Cretan Assembly 
as the leader of the Liberal party. He felt intensely 
the oppression under which Crete had lived for cen- 
turies; yet, even in this burning zeal of his untried 
youth, he gave evidence of that dominating moral 
poise that has been so conspicuous in his later sway. 
The Liberal party at that time was so much in the 
ascendant that it was proposed to extinguish the few 
remaining deputies of the opposition. But Venizelos 
objected; he argued that a party cannot rest on nu- 
merical strength alone, that it must be true to moral 
principle, without which it could accomplish no useful 
work nor inspire confidence. He won the victory; 
and his courage, magnanimity, and a singular power 
of concentration of will controlled the situation. From 
this time he was a marked figure. He was an untiring 
student; he familiarized himself with French history 
and literature; he gave unwearied pains to the study 
of English. He acquired Spanish, Italian, and Ger- 
man. There was a great work waiting for him, and 
meantime invisible guidance seemed inspiring him to 
prepare himself for the work. 

There was in Crete one man, formerly one of the 
Cretan presidents, Demetrius Sphakianaki, whose 
influence on Venizelos was very marked. Sphakianaki 
had been displaced to make Prince George the High 
Commissioner from the Powers, and on this retire- 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

ment he turned to the study of his favorite meta- 
physicians. Whether he devoted nine years to the 
famous "Critique" alone, as Doctor William T. 
Harris did, is not on record; but Kant's remarkable 
work was, at all events, the constant companion of the 
Cretan. This philosophic zeal was shared by the 
youthful statesman; they passed much time together, 
and the devotee of Kant initiated his young friend 
into those serene regions of speculative thought which 
were the corrective of the fiery nature of the younger 
man. All these and other distinctive influences were 
educating him for the future. For it was Venizelos 
whose hand was on the parting of the ways. When 
he had set free the Military League from the quick- 
sands of the Parliament that threatened its extinction, 
it was his confidence in Constantine, then the Crown 
Prince, that induced Greece to summon him home and 
place him again at the head of the army. There 
ensued the rewriting of the Constitution of Greece; 
the improvement of the Ministries; the renewed ener- 
gizing of the people. He unified Greece and stamped 
its nationality with a new impress. In 1907 there 
was a conjunction of forces that led Italy to sympathize 
with the Cretes in their effort to secure direct represen- 
tation in the Hellenic Chamber; and Turkey was 
standing by with a threat to send an army to the 
very gates of Athens, if the Cretans succeeded in 
this. Under these conditions, Venizelos was elected 
the first deputy. He was then in Lausanne; hasten- 
ing to Crete, he paused in Rome by the way, and the 
Minister for Foreign Affairs, meeting him, said: "M. 
Venizelos is a political genius. He is destined to play 

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a great part in the affairs of Greece." On his arrival 
in Athens he was welcomed by that city and the 
Piraeus, with ships that met him down the harbor, 
bearing delegations of the deputies, and from the 
balcony of his hotel in Athens he addressed a vast 
crowd. He urged loyalty to the King and a revision 
of legislation. 

It is interesting to trace the parallel and the diver- 
gence between Mazzini and Venizelos. Both men are 
compact of noble ideals; but an ideal must embody 
itself in practicable relations to man in order to be of 
genuine aid. Mazzini's ideals were isolated; he had 
not the comprehensive grasp on existing realities that 
would have enabled him to adjust theories to condi- 
tions. He had no constructive statesmanship. Veni- 
zelos has a marvellous genius for implanting his ideals 
in the minds of the people, who immediately make 
them their own. In a word, he has the magic to 
implant an inner impulse. 

In his early life M. Venizelos married a native of 
Crete whose death left him with two young sons to 
whose education and culture he is devoted. He 
deprecates all personal adulation and escapes from it 
whenever possible. He has a great love for the Acrop- 
olis, and whenever possible he walks around it in 
the late evening. Had Constantine made his own the 
counsel of this wise and loyal statesman, he might have 
been on the Greek throne to-day, upheld and beloved 
by Greece. Since 1899, when Venizelos was first 
called to Athens, his influence has been the most 
potent factor in the determination of progress. Now 
(1918) in his fifty-fifth year, he is in the crisis time 

[160] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

of his career. The future of Greece is undisclosed; 
but such a statesman as Venizelos, with his construc- 
tive genius, his moral poise, his intense interest in 
literature and art, his great patience and conciliatory 
spirit, and his unsurpassed diplomatic power, is 
the pledge and prophecy of his country's triumph in 
all that makes for her ultimate good. The Hellenic 
civilization has its peculiar type and is strong with the 
splendid intellectual development of twenty-five cen- 
turies. The Greek of to-day prides himself on being 
the heir of the ages that produced Thucydides and 
Themistocles, Plato and Socrates. To the Greek it 
is never too late 

"... to seek a newer world." 

This inalienable nobility of the Greek spirit persists, 
and persists with an immortal vigor throughout the 
centuries. 

An interesting personality is the librarian of Parlia- 
ment, Monsieur Kalogeropoulos, an eminent scholar, 
and one whose hospitable office opens the valuable 
collections under his care to foreigners who come to 
Athens to consult the rare books in this library. 

Among other interesting personalities, easily met in 
the simplicity of court life in Athens, were Prince and 
Princess Nicholas, the latter having been the Grand 
Duchess Helene Vladimirovna. They occupy a simple 
but attractive villa in the Rue de Cephissia in Athens, 
the grounds of which are beautiful with palm trees, 
and the Princess Helene is much in evidence socially. 

Madame Schliemann, the widow of the distinguished 
archaeologist, lives in the "Palace of Ilium," a magnif- 

[161] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

icent white marble villa that Doctor Schliemann built 
in the Boulevard de 1 'Universite, and which is one of 
the treasure houses of Europe. It stands in the midst 
of extensive grounds, where palms, lemon and orange 
trees in bloom contrast with the pink blossoms of 
the Judas tree, and with masses of roses and of the 
purple wistaria. Ionic pillars support the porticoes 
of the first two stories of the villa, the walls and ceil- 
ings of which are inlaid with mosaic, and the roof is 
surmounted with classic statues. Madame Schlie- 
mann is a native Greek (Sophia Kastromenos) of a 
distinguished family, several of whose members have 
been noted in science and the arts; she is a woman 
of liberal culture, widely traveled, speaking several 
languages, and endowed with brilliant intellectual 
gifts. The noted archaeologist took great pride in her, 
in that she united with such sympathetic and com- 
prehending devotion in the lofty purposes of his life. 
Throughout all the capitals of Europe, Madame 
Schliemann holds recognized intellectual rank and the 
authority of the scholar. Athens is so appreciative 
of intellectual greatness that it has always ranked 
Madame Schliemann above royalty. Her conversa- 
tional powers amount to an actual genius. She is 
simple, direct, sincere, and surrounds her friends 
with an atmosphere as stimulating as it is sympathetic. 
The two children of the house are a son, Agamemnon, 
and a daughter who was named Andromache, and who 
is the wife of a Greek. Agamemnon Schliemann was 
for some time a leading member of the Chambre 
des Deputes, and for a brief period the Greek Minister 
to the United States. 

[162] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

That wonderful spring in Athens had been initiated 
by my favorite southern voyage to Naples, where 
our White Star liner had landed a large shipload of 
passengers about nine o'clock one evening. We were 
all in limbo, so to speak, — at all events in the dogana 
(custom-house), — the entire hand (stateroom) luggage 
piled in one vast heap in the center, after the happy- 
go-lucky manner of Southern Italy, in keen contrast 
with our own alphabetical sorting. Every one was 
foraging for himself and the announcements and 
vociferations of hotel agents, porters, and various 
officials added to the melee. For some little time a 
persistent voice had seemed to me to make itself 
distinctive, even in all that pandemonium; but I had 
not thought much of it until a fellow passenger in- 
formed me that my name was being called. Then 
I distinguished a "Mees Viting, Mees Viting, Meester 
Cook, he haf for you une telegrafo!" Making myself 
known to the representative of "Meester Cook," 
a cryptic message was handed me, asking that I call 
at the Cook's office as early as possible. As this was 
Saturday night, and no possibility presented itself 
until Monday, my feminine curiosity had abundance 
of time to exercise itself. 

In Naples I had always been accustomed to stop 
at the Bristol, up on the terraces and in all tripping 
about I had formed the unromantic habit of usu- 
ally returning to the same hotel, which made it the 
more unaccountable on this night that, having fully 
intended to go as usual to the Bristol, I suddenly 
decided, a propos of nothing that I knew of, to change 
to Parker's. They were both very agreeable places, 

[163] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

but the latter was new to me, and as the location 
was practically the same, Parker's being but one 
terrace below, there was no reasonable cause for the 
decision. Was it a clue when, later on, I found that 
by virtue of being in that hotel, I had the pleasure and 
the infinite advantage of meeting Madame Agamemnon 
Schliemann, whom otherwise I probably should not 
have met? Chi lo sa? For I was on my way to Athens, 
and Naples was a way station only, just then, on the 
journey. All practical advice had been to the effect 
that if one were going to Greece, why sail to Italy? 
There were steamers from New York to the Piraeus; 
and if one were setting forth to Athens, why should 
he bring up at Naples? All this was logical, but we 
can only act, after all, from our own polarity, such as 
this is; and the voyage from Boston to Naples, with 
its festive stops at the Azores, Madeira, Gibraltar, 
Algiers, had always so enchained me with its charm 
that more than once I had journeyed from London 
down to Genoa for the sake of this sail, rather than 
take the monotonous one from an English port to 
the States. The illogical voyage on this occasion had 
simply been one of the always increasing ecstacies of 
enjoyment, and the meeting with the daughter-in-law 
of the famous archaeologist was so absolutely a matter 
of bona fortuna that it seemed to justify the choice. 

At that time Greece was at war with Bulgaria, 
and the younger Madame Schliemann, with her dis- 
tinguished "helle-mere" with Queen Sophia, and other 
of the great ladies of Athens, had been to the front, 
following the ambulances and nursing the soldiers, 
until she was entirely worn out and had come to Naples 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

to recuperate. A lovely young woman, a Parisienne 
by birth and rearing, although she was the daughter 
of mixed Danish and English parentage, she had 
married Agamemnon Schliemann some ten years be- 
fore, and she and her husband made one household 
with the elder Madame Schliemann, the widow of 
the archaeologist, in their palace of Ilium in Athens. 
To one who had never been in Greece it was of special 
advantage to meet a lady who not only knew Athens 
so well, but by virtue of her position knew statesmen, 
scientists, and the forces of society in general. No 
possible information gained from reading could have 
been so valuable to me as that kindly given by Madame 
Agamemnon Schliemann. 

The mysterious "telegrafo" grew only more in- 
scrutable when Monday came and I made my way 
to "Meester Cook's." For I was informed that a 
certain sum of money had been telegraphed to me 
from a given city. It was incomprehensible; it is 
only in the novels of the despised and rejected roman- 
ticism that money thus mysteriously falls upon the 
deserving poor, and I had been taught by Mr. Howells 
and Mr. Henry James that the only right-minded 
novel is that in which nothing at all happens. The 
real fact is, however, that in actual life so much hap- 
pens that the novel of photographic realism would be 
of all others the most incredible. I could not con- 
scientiously even lay the flattering unction to my 
soul of belonging to the deserving, but, rather, alas! 
to the undeserving poor. And are castles and estates 
likely to fall on them? I questioned as to the source 
of this windfall. The polite clerk did not know. 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

No name had been given. "There is some mistake," 
I said; "it is not for me." He insisted that it was, 
and I went away, no wiser, even if more affluent. 
A day passed and there came another summons by 
telephone to the Cook office. Of course it had all been 
a mistake, I thought, and now I am to return the 
funds. To my surprise, there was another sum tele- 
graphed, again without clue to the donor. But by 
this time I had become quite reconciled to receiving 
undreamed-of resources and even ventured to hope 
that if finances dropped from the skies the miracle 
might continue indefinitely! However, the expla- 
nation came later on, and a curious one it was. 

When I had gone on board the steamer at Boston, 
I had momentarily mislaid my handbag; and some en- 
terprising journal announced the next day that I had 
lost it with three hundred dollars inside. As a matter 
of fact there had been no loss, nor trouble of any kind. 
But this had been cabled to the Paris edition of the 
New York Herald; and though I had written some 
twenty books, first and last, and had received some 
toleration in the press of my country, no one had ever 
regarded these humble efforts as of sufficient impor- 
tance to transmit across the ocean; but if one loses 
a handbag, presto! it becomes "news." A European 
friend, seeing this delectable item, thoughtfully con- 
sidered that it might not be possible to draw on one's 
credentials at the moment of landing and so most 
kindly came to the rescue. 

My objective point, however, at this time was 
Greece, and after sailing from Naples to Patras, we 
landed on a cold and gloomy morning, when the 

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bare mountains of towering rocks took on a slate 
color, forbidding rather than beautiful, and the for- 
saken aspect of the port reminded one of Dante's 
sinister inscription over the gates of the Inferno. 
There is only one hope connected with Patras, which is 
to get out of it; and fortunately there was a train to 
Athens with little delay. The nine hours' journey 
along the Gulf of Corinth, with its changeful coloring, 
and through the sublimities of mountain solitudes was 
one to be remembered. 

There was no heat in the cars; the wind that day 
swept wildly over the mountains, almost bending the 
trunks of great trees, and I had a realizing sense of the 
signal power of Boreas in his native country. The 
towering peaks of rocks pierced the very sky. It is 
on this route that one passes the station, Zachlorou, 
the approach to the most important monastery of 
Greece, the Megaspelaeon, located in a huge cave on 
the mountain slope, which gives it, at any distance, 
the appearance of clinging to the mountain. This 
monastery dates to the fourth century, and is fre- 
quently visited by scholars for the ancient manu- 
scripts preserved in its library. It is three thousand 
feet above the sea level, and is in one of the wildest 
parts of the Peloponnesus. 

The waters in the Gulf of Corinth are iridescent 
in coloring, in vivid hues of green and rose, amber 
and violet, and the entrancing play of color, the 
titanic splendor of the scenery, and the wonderful 
engineering achievements in evidence along the entire 
route, make this journey between Patras and Athens 
unique. The train rushed through tunnels under 

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the mountains; across lofty viaducts from precipice 
to precipice; and at Corinth crossed the canal on a 
trestlework bridge nearly three hundred feet long at 
a height of more than a hundred and fifty feet above 
the water. 

To arrive in Athens in the late evening in a cold 
downpour of rain might serve to quench classical 
enthusiasm for the moment; but the entrance to a 
fine hotel, greeted by steam heat at the very door 
from radiators in the vestibule that, for the moment, 
rivalled all dreams of the Parthenon in their attraction; 
to enter on richly carpeted salons, with decorated 
ceilings and electric chandeliers, and to be ushered, 
presently, into a dining room where a multitude of 
rose-shaded candles in silver supports and baskets 
of fruit tied with golden and pale green ribbons gave 
the little tables the aspect of a fairyland, — who could 
forget this first impression of Athens after a journey 
whose scheduled nine hours had extended itself to 
twelve; and whose temperature recalled Bayard 
Taylor's declaration that Greece could be as cold as 
Lapland? But the next morning made amends. It 
was midwinter by the calendar and midsummer by 
the skies. 

It is Corfu which is the enchantment of Greece, 
and the island identified with the Homeric world. 
Sailing from the Piraeus to Brindisi, I had a little 
interlude in the white city that clings to the hill. 
From the balconies of the Hotel Venise the citadel is 
seen against the background of the peak of San Sal- 
vador. The intense color that flames in the late 
afternoon over all these mountains and which reflects 

[168] 




DEATH LEADING THE YOUTH TO ETERNAL LIFE 
From an ancient sculpture 'excavaird in the old Dipylon cemeterv, Athens 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

itself in the sea can only suggest the language of Reve- 
lations. Napoleon declared that Corfu had the most 
beautiful situation in the world, and the tourist cannot 
fail to agree with him. Corfu is much of a winter 
resort for the Parisians. Flowers and fruits abound; 
the temperature is perfect; and the charm of Corfu 
is as indescribable as the perfume of a rose. 

Landing at Brindisi on my return to Italy, I was 
indebted to a compatriot, a young architect who had 
been for three years at Smyrna and Constantinople, 
for extricating me from the misapprehensions of the 
customshouse. Like most of the members of my 
craft I had fared forth with a pen in my hand, and the 
manuscript notes I had made for use in the book I 
was about to write ("Athens, the Violet-Crowned") 
excited suspicion on account of the war then in progress 
between Greece and Turkey. The package was seized 
and conveyed into the official office; and as a train to 
Naples was about due, a delay was disastrous, for 
Brindisi is about the last place on earth that one would 
select to pass a night in. I feared this dire fate would 
be mine, as it would have been, had not my compatriot, 
who was familiar with all the dialects of the Adriatic, 
explained to the officials that I was his countrywoman, 
and a writer, and that these notes were for harmless 
purposes. All that Southern Adriatic coast of Italy 
is far more Oriental than it is Italian, and a number 
of mixed dialects do duty for language. 

The first centenary of Greek independence does not 
fall until 1935; and it may confidently be hoped that 
by that date she may regain and further develop a life 
worthy the traditions of her glorious past, and such 

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as will insure a still more glorious future. For of 
Greece one may well say, in the words of the Poet: 

"The Present holds thee not — for such vast growth as thine — 
for such unparalleled flight as thine, 
The Future only holds thee, and can hold thee." 

On the voyage out to Naples we had stopped, as 
usual, at Algiers, whose charm is hardly second to that 
of Corfu. One of the special allurements of this 
voyage was always the anticipation of the stop at 
Algiers, which varied in duration from two or three 
to occasionally ten hours, giving time for much pictur- 
esque sight-seeing. Then, too, it was always possible 
to make a sojourn of from two weeks to a month, 
if one liked, by waiting over one or two steamers. It 
is an especially easy city in which to locate one's self, 
with its admirable hotels and pensions, and the con- 
venient configuration of the residence regions. This 
metropolis of Northern Africa has a beauty unsurpassed 
in its picturesque and somewhat Oriental architecture 
in white marble, the city terraced against a back- 
ground of green hills, with a crescent water-front 
whose curve is washed by a brilliant sapphire sea. 
Nowhere in the Mediterranean is the water so incom- 
parably exquisite in color, and few ports have so 
magnificent a harbor. Algiers itself suggests a curious 
and fascinating blending of Cairo, Naples, and Paris. 
Mustapha Superieur is practically a modern French 
town, where the buildings, the streets, and the shops 
are fairly Parisian. Mustapha Inferieur is a mixture, 
as complex as a witches' brew, of Arab, Moorish, 
Italian, Egyptian. Its possibilities for offering to the 

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visitor abundant opportunities to "sup on horrors" 
are perhaps sometimes exaggerated in the interests 
of the picturesque and the narrator's thirst for a 
"thriller," and while they undoubtedly exist, yet to 
the uninitiate, they may not reveal themselves. I 
recall listening with some amusement to the innocent 
fervor of delight that invested the story of a Boston 
lady, who, never having encountered anything more 
appalling than the Frog Pond of Boston Common in 
all her long, if not eventful life, engaged the service of 
an Arab guide and went alone with him between six 
and nine o'clock at night into all the highways and 
byways of this Mustapha Inferieur. Our steamer, 
which had stopped at Algiers at two in the afternoon, 
was to leave at ten, and she barely returned in good 
time to sail. Apparently the Providence that tra- 
ditionally provides for "the lame and the lazy" also 
watched over her, and she returned none the worse 
from the dangers of which she had not dreamed, and 
greatly delighted with the opportunity of thus enhanc- 
ing that store of knowledge whose acquisition is con- 
sidered by the Bostonian the cause for whose pursuit 
he appeared on this planet. But though the tourist 
may, it is confidently believed, sup on horrors in this 
part of Algiers, there is no need of resorting to such 
questionable fare, and the abundant opportunities 
for enjoying repasts of quite different character are 
at hand. The sunshine and balmy air suggest June 
rather than January which the calendar indicates, 
and the few hours of sojourn offer attractions of 
varied orders. 

From the Casbah, or fortress, that crowns the highest 
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hill to the arches of streets below, the dazzling color 
scheme extends. Strange music, made by the Moorish 
people on still stranger instruments, floats out on the 
air. From the roof of many of the houses extends 
an open terrace, gay with flowers and orange trees. 

One finds this dazzling Algiers all aglow with the 
most radiant sunshine; it is a city of some two hun- 
dred thousand people, English and French predomi- 
nating, with some Spanish, Americans, Portuguese, 
and Italians. Algiers is a city of superb architectural 
art; numerous splendid hotels with every comfort, 
not to say luxury, and every modern convenience; 
its streets and outlying roads are a paradise to the 
motorist; the coloring of sky and seas, and the masses 
of flowers, lend bloom and beauty to an almost en- 
chanting degree; and the strange, impressive mosques, 
the cathedral, the summer and winter palaces of the 
Governor, the Archbishop's palace, the art museum, 
and the library, the theaters, and the palace of the 
consulate, all surprise the visitor who has never before 
seen this city. There is an Ecole de Medecine et 
Sciences that attracts large numbers of students from 
all parts of Europe; the building, a massive structure 
of white marble, stands on a terraced hill, in the midst 
of palm and pepper trees, with shrubs in flower, and 
beds of blossoms of myriad hues and varieties. 

The sojourner in Algiers whether for the few hours 
afforded by the stopping, en voyage, or when passing 
some weeks in this most fascinating city, finds a great 
interest in visiting the mosques and observing the 
ceremonies of the devout worshippers of Allah. The 
essentials of the religion of Christianity and of Ma- 

[172] 




MOSQUE OF SIDI ABDERRAHMAN, ALGIERS 

From a photograph 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

hornet will be found singularly to coincide in the 
fundamental obligations of love to God and love to 
man. "Observe prayer, and be patient under what- 
ever betide thee," the Koran teaches. 

Of the mosques, that of Sidi Abderrahman is the 
most impressive, with its interior forest of marble 
pillars, its beautiful court and lofty tower. At what- 
ever hour one may enter, — morning, midday, late 
evening, — a throng will be found kneeling, bowing 
themselves in prayer and kissing the floor, while they 
chant a strange cadence that haunts the memory. 

Among the Moors in Algiers, a curious custom pre- 
vails: the Moorish women visit the cemetery on 
Thursday afternoons. They appear in great numbers 
and with the air of those enjoying a particular festa. 
Each grave in the cemetery is arranged with a center 
of green, two small white stones marking the head and 
the foot, and the earth heaped in oblong shape. These 
Thursday afternoons in the Campo Santo are the high 
holidays of the women, representing their only social 
relaxation. 

One of the interesting excursions for foreigners is 
that made to the tomb of Leila Kredidja, a Marabouti, 
who was held in worship and reverence. The tomb is 
on the highest point of the Atlas Mountains, seven 
thousand feet above the sea. 

At sunset there is a wonderful glow over Algiers, 
when a thousand shimmering hues reflected from the 
marble buildings, mingle with the flood of rose and 
gold that offers a spectacle of almost unearthly splen- 
dor. To watch the sunset from the Palais d'Hiver 
out on the terraces over the gardens, with the mosques 

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and domes and towers of the city far below; with the 
deep blue waters of the Mediterranean as far toward 
the horizon as the eye can see, is a panorama that 
even Sicily cannot surpass. In this winter palace 
(Palais d'Hiver) the interior is an Arabian fantasy. 
The corridors are encrusted with Moorish mosaics, 
with which the balustrades of the grand escalier are 
also inlaid. The ballroom is in white and silver, with 
impaneled mirrors in the walls. One suite of salons 
is in creamy ivory and gold, the walls again impaneled 
in vast mirrors. The salle-a-manger is inviting in 
pale rose and blue, with wreaths of rosebuds; and. the 
library, containing many hundreds of volumes, com- 
prises books in a dozen different languages. 

But it is the ballroom that is the salient interest of 
the palace, for gayety is the keynote of Algerian life. 
One winter night, when all the constellations were 
sparkling in the skies, a grand ball, rumors of which 
had filled the air for weeks, was given at the Palais 
d'Hiver. Foreign sojourners, some of them, were 
included in the invitations, and the unique character 
of this festivity is something never to be forgotten. 
Strange Arab and Moorish music mingled with the 
continental waltzes and other melodies of the orches- 
tra, and Arab dances were given. The curious intri- 
cacy of some of the figures was a study. There were 
notable persons of several nationalities present; many 
of these came from the desert, and among them was 
Prince Ali Bey, who wore a flowing cloak of sapphire 
velvet, embroidered in gold, over a costume of white 
satin, flashing with jewels as if he had just stepped 
out of an Arabian Nights dream. All these figures 

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from the desert were arrayed in the most gorgeous 
robes and splendor of color. The dressing of the 
French women repeated Parisian toilettes, with the 
same indescribable loveliness as that of the great 
balls in the Champs Elysees, or in the old Faubourg 
Saint-Germain. The dawn was disputing supremacy 
with the starlight when the last dance ceased. 

Algiers is the gateway to the desert; and there is 
a local trip, requiring only four days, in which one 
condenses an extraordinary variety that is much in 
vogue with those whose stay is limited. This is the 
circular journey from Algiers to Constantine, Biskra, 
Tunisia, and thence to Algiers again. The slow prog- 
ress of the train between Algiers and Constantine is 
not undesirable, as it enables the tourist to see some 
of the wildest scenery of the African coast. There 
are admirable roads, and of late years most travelers 
prefer to make this trip in motor cars. Constantine 
is reached in time for a late dinner. It is built en- 
tirely on cliffs with deep gorges between the streets, 
across which the houses face each other. Frequently 
the chasms are filled with rushing waters. They are 
bridged, and the aspect of this town on the cliffs is 
almost as romantic as that of Venice on the water. 
The houses are built on the solid rocks; the gorge that 
entirely surrounds Constantine is a thousand feet in 
depth, and in its very bottom is seen a swift, dark 
river called the Rhummel. This loses itself at length 
under a mass of colossal rocks, where there are the 
remains of an old Roman bridge, and then the river 
appears again in a series of cascades. A suspension 
bridge which is really a viaduct with a long embank- 

[175] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

ment connects Constantine with its suburbs, El 
Kantara, Mansourah, Coudiat. The population of 
Constantine is divided into three distinct quarters, 
— the European, the Jewish, and the Arab. From 
the Place de la Breche in the European part the city 
reveals wide streets and squares; and the museum, 
the ramparts of the Casgah (with their superb view), 
the Palace of Ahmed Bey, the university, the finest 
mosque, Djama-el-Kattani, and the cathedral, all make 
up a city surprising indeed to strangers. In the solid 
rock of the Rhummel chasm a footpath is cut, the 
Chemin des Touristes, which is a promenade not to 
be missed. 

The houses in the Arab quarter are of a light blue, 
and each one is surmounted by a stork's nest. To 
pass a night or two at Constantine is an experience 
one would not forego. 

The journey to Biskra takes some eight hours, the 
distance being a hundred and fifty miles. The route 
is diversified by the wild gorge of El Kantara, which 
in the coloring of the rocks and effects of light recalls 
the Grand Canyon in Arizona, although El Kantara 
is far less vast. The moonlight transforms the entire 
region into something as weird as the dance of the 
Brocken. Precipices of sheer rock rise from the gorge, 
taking on fantastic shapes and blazing like a con- 
flagration under the full sunlight. At night they 
become spectral and seem to change like plastic figures 
under the gaze. El Kantara is known as the Gate 
of the Desert, Biskra being only thirty-five miles 
distant, and the atmosphere of brooding mystery is 
here perceptible. The isolation of desert haunts is 

[176] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

more realized at El Kantara than even at Biskra, which 
is dangerously near becoming cosmopolitan, and is as 
definite a winter resort as is the Riviera. 

With almost perpetual sunshine, Biskra has a 
temperature rarely ranging above seventy, and the 
dryness and transparency of the air are wonderful. 
This desert city has trolley cars; and the great forest 
of a quarter of a million of palm trees with its gardens, 
its flowing streams, and winding roads, offers alluring 
drives and walks. It is "The Garden of Allah" 
indeed, a place for visions and dreams. It is the poet 
and the romanticist who is the real historian; and 
Biskra owes more of its fame to Robert Hichens than 
to any other channel of publicity. Let any locality 
be invested with the poet's word; with the glamour 
of such a romanticist as Mr. Hichens, and the very 
atmosphere becomes magnetic. While the brief visit 
of the tourist is quite sufficient to enrich one with 
lasting impressions of the magic and mystery of the 
desert gate, a stay of months is not without charm. 
The study of the Arab character and religious devotion 
(the two are really synonymous) can nowhere be 
better pursued than in Biskra. But the event of this 
strange little city is the sunset. It has a glory of 
splendor that is hardly paralleled from any other 
vantage ground on the planet. The configuration of 
the encircling mountains, open only on the illimitable 
sea of the Sahara desert, gives to this sunset panorama 
the effect of a series of stage scenes, only on so colossal 
a scale that, gazing upon the successive marvels of 
color, one can only repeat, "Heaven and earth are full 
of Thy glory!" For through the vista of the mountain 

[177] 



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opening, the desert, infinite in space as the ocean, is 
seen as a soft haze of royal purple with hints of rose; 
this melts into a brilliant glow of golden light in which 
the white figures of the Arabs stand out in startling 
distinctness; then a deep scarlet band with a contrast- 
ing one of emerald green will appear against a sky of 
the deepest blue; and when the evening star suddenly 
leaps out of the unmeasured ether of space, to be 
followed by the constellations that hang, like lamps, in 
the heavens, the scene is something beyond speech 
or language. 

From Constantine to Tunis is an interesting journey. 
The capital of Tunisia numbers nearly two hundred 
thousand inhabitants, and the city set on a lake has 
all manner of picturesque features. While the Orien- 
tal Tunis is singularly untouched by the encroachments 
of modern civilization, on the "made" land out in the 
lake rises the modern European city, neither seeming 
to interfere with the other. 

Only ten miles distant is Carthage whose ruins 
speak of its former grandeur. The Roman walls; 
the remains of the vast basilica; the baths, the amphi- 
theater, the seats of which are well preserved; the 
ruins of the aqueducts, like that of the Campagna 
near Rome; the Punic and the Roman cemeteries, 
all are eloquent of a past that has vanished from earth. 

To set sail from Algiers in the late evening is to 
enjoy another spectacle of splendor. There are eight 
miles of water front, crescent-shaped, brilliantly illu- 
minated; and on the hills, terrace after terrace, are 
seen the lights of the city. It is difficult to realize 
that this is the scene of every night, so entirely does it 

[178] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

appear to be a special festival of illumination. With 
the single exception of Corfu, the waters about South- 
ern Europe hardly offer any place of sojourn com- 
parable in beauty and in luxurious conveniences to 
the African metropolis, Algiers the Beautiful. Nor 
in the effects of light is any city of the water front, — 
Naples, Genoa, or any other, — comparable to Algiers. 
Her only rival promises to be the young seaport of the 
great northwest of Canada, Prince Rupert, whose 
configuration of terraced heights on an island assure 
it rank with the most picturesque seaport on the 
planet. 

Palermo is another joyous interlude of the southern 
voyage. This city on the Conca d'Oro is surrounded 
by vast gardens of orange and olive trees; a mountain 
peak, Monte Pellegrino, over nineteen hundred feet 
high, towers up behind the city, and from the moun- 
tain, hills slope to the sea in a picturesque sweep. 
The one special interest of Palermo is the pilgrimage 
to Monreale, a few miles up in the hills, where is the 
celebrated cathedral whose mosaics are unsurpassed, 
if not, indeed, unrivaled, in the world. This cathe- 
dral is the most important work of Norman art in 
all Sicily; yet so varied are the architectural designs 
that meet and mingle in it, — the Latin, Byzantine, 
Saracenic, Greek, — that it can hardly be regarded as 
essentially Norman. 

On a June sailing from Italy to the States, the ques- 
tion of the hour, on the day we had left Naples, was 
as to whether our steamer would touch at Palermo 
the next morning in time to allow this excursion to 
Monreale. Life on board a steamer is anything but 

[179] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

monotonous. There are always burning questions 
of the hour that thus arise, at least on this southern 
voyage, where stops are made on so many points long 
enough for idyllic excursions; and however the time 
is calculated, there is usually some mysterious and 
felicitous planning that brings the steamer to the 
longed-for place just at the right time for passengers 
to enjoy a bit of sight-seeing, while the steamer pro- 
ceeds with its more prosaic business of loading or 
unloading cargoes. On this occasion there was no 
exception to the infallibility of the plan that insured 
a lovely day for the passengers. Those were the days 
when we knew no sterner cares than to wonder whether 
the steamer would be in a given place at morning or 
midnight; whether the sun would shine, or the rains 
descend; whether cabs and conveniences would be in 
plentiful evidence. In the face of the tragical con- 
ditions in which I am writing, in this yet unrevealed 
year of 1918, how remote and trivial seem all those 
little ardent hopes and fears and anticipations. 

However, on this June day, we anchored at Palermo 
on a morning all rose and gold and azure shadows; 
a day that seemed made in Paradise, and with the 
cheerful assurance from the captain that we should 
not leave till evening. So there we all were, with 
"health and a day," which Emerson assured us are 
the two factors that would make even the pomp of 
Emperors ridiculous. It was a "joyous companie" 
that flocked in various directions. Most of us decided 
to take Monreale first; then, if any time were left, 
there were the museum and one or two of the churches 
in the city that might be seen, though these were 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

negligible in any comparison with the cathedral. 
The drive up the mountain was a marvel of views 
The road was cut into the mountain side, which towered 
above the plain and the sea, over which one saw 
the distant horizon. It was hardly more than half an 
hour's drive to the glorious church which had been 
built in the twelfth century by King William II, in 
obedience to a vision of the Virgin who appeared to 
him and directed his purpose. Formerly there was 
a splendid Benedictine monastery connected with it, 
of which now only the cloisters remain. The church 
was made a cathedral in 1682, by the decree of Pope 
Lucius III. Two square towers rise from the struc- 
ture; and in the vast spaces of the interior is that 
blaze of golden mosaics, as brilliant and fresh as if 
they had been laid yesterday. How one loitered and 
gazed and rambled into niche and cloister and sacristy 
and many undreamed-of rooms! There were in- 
scriptions, busts, details that would have given much 
occupation to the antiquarian. The usual voyagers 
to Italy on this southern line were not antiquarians, 
but they were, as a rule, people of artistic tastes and 
proclivities, which was, to some extent, at least, the 
reason for their making these voyages. To a con- 
siderable degree they took in the ensemble of wonderful 
places and interiors without concerning themselves 
too much about the scholarly details. 

The archaeologist finds interest in the collections 
preserved in the museum, but there is no art to speak 
of, nor, indeed, of interest in any line in Palermo, 
aside from that of the unmatched cathedral on Mon- 
reale. 

[181] 



VIII 
LIFE AND ART IN PARIS 

"I will make me a city of gliding and wide-wayed silencu, 
With a highway of glass and of gold; 

Of sweet excursions of noiseless and brilliant travel; 
Of room in your streets for the soul;" 

Stephen Phillips, "Midnight — 1900" 

PABIS celebrated the inauguration of the new 
century in the summer of 1900, by an exposition 
picturesquely disposed on both sides of the Seine, 
that brought together the choicest as well as the larg- 
est collection of art that has ever, in any one exhibit, 
been presented heretofore. To the student and the 
lover of painting and sculpture that opportunity 
alone was enough to distinguish the hundred years 
of the new period on which the world entered; and 
added to this interest was the social brilliancy, with 
all the world in the French Capital. La vie mondaine 
was in perpetual evidence in the Champs Elysees. 
In its atmosphere of joyous abandon the populace 
suggested that it had acquired the wings of the morn- 
ing. The Grand Palais de Beaux- Arts was constructed 
to remain as the permanent building for all future 
salons; and this, with the sculpture garden adjoining, 

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was filled with a very remarkable display of work rep- 
resentative of all the chief nations. Monsieur Rodin 
was the hero of the hour. The French government, 
with its characteristically generous recognition of 
genius, provided for him a separate pavilion, just out- 
side one of the entrances to the exposition. Aside 
from this honor the government also granted him the 
free use of two immense studios in the Rue de 1'Univer- 
site, where, with a small army of workmen around 
him, the sculptor was at work on the immense gates 
for the Hotel de Ville, the designs drawn from the 
Divina Commedia, fairly rivalling in interest the 
Ghiberti Gates in Florence. At this time Rodin was 
sixty years of age, with hardly more than a decade 
of fame behind him. He came late to the feast, but 
he brought his sheaves with him. Rodin was not 
tall nor did he seem, at first sight, to have much dis- 
tinction of presence; but his eyes, deeply blue, 
luminous, fathomless, held the attention. His reddish 
hair was sprinkled with gray as was his beard; he 
spoke no language but his own; he had little social 
initiative, and still, in any extended acquaintance, 
M. Rodin became one of the most interesting person- 
alities. He was something of a mystic, yet more of 
a radical. He had a singularly noble quality, and 
was the very impersonation of truth and of personal 
honor. He was more of a believer in industry than 
in inspiration. "Great men?" he would say. "There 
are no great men. There are great thinkers and 
great workers, — men who are always learners. For 
myself? I worked. I work. That is all. Sculpture 
for me was a necessity. It is not merely a metier. 

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I struggled with myself and with my material. I 
devote myself to the same care in every part of the 
body. A finger may have more of personality than 
the face." Born in Paris in 1840, Rodin lived until 
into 1917. It is still too early fully to appraise his 
art. That he exerted a determining influence on sculp- 
ture during the last twenty-five years of his life is an 
incontrovertible fact; but this may not mean the 
actual perpetuation of his own trend. In breaking 
up the old conventions he opened the way for new 
ones, though not necessarily his own. 

It was easy to have fragmentary talks with M. 
Rodin in his pavilion where he passed a part of every 
day during the exposition. And in one of these 
discussions he invited a friend and myself to lunch 
with him at his home on a given day. His home was 
at Meudon, a few miles out of Paris. It was a plain 
brick house, standing in large grounds, the elevation 
of which afforded a view over the city. Attached 
to the house was his private studio, or gallery, a 
beautiful little building of white stone (or concrete) 
with long windows. A balcony ran all around the 
interior, giving an admirable view of the sculpture 
grouped on the floor below. A flight of stairs led to 
the balcony. The studio had a glass roof, and the 
light on the marbles was fine. It is in the center of 
this studio, holding in his hands a globe, that Rodin 
is represented in his portrait painted by Alexander, 
in standing pose, — an impressive portrayal. 

In this gallery the sculptor had (at that time) the 
cast of his statue of Balzac. It was first exhibited in 
the salon of 1898. The strange, grotesque, fascinating, 

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and impressive creation occupied a conspicuous posi- 
tion in the sculpture garden, and there flocked repre- 
sentatives of various countries, praising it and 
anathematizing it in their various languages. It 
excited an enthusiasm of admiration; it aroused a 
storm of derision. There is probably not in modern 
art a creation at once so fantastic and so suggestive. 
To me, the first sight of this creation brought an 
instantaneous vision which, like Banquo's ghost, 
would not "down." Every time I looked upon it I 
seemed to see the bulky figure of Honore de Balzac 
wrapped in a shapeless robe which he drew about him, 
and then, having swallowed the traditional fern-seed 
which is held to make its partaker invisible, stalking 
through the crowded streets of Paris. I could see this 
huge figure towering above other men, but unseen by 
them, — itself reading their inmost thoughts as clearly 
as one could see the works of a clock through a glass 
case; and thus gathering the data for that marvelous 
series of novels. It recognized all types, from Pere 
Goriot to the youth who rapturously accepted the 
peau de chagrin, to Louis Lambert, to Seraphita. 
Gliding, unseen of men, through the labyrinthine streets 
of Paris, it took cognizance of every phase of human 
thought and of mental activity. A shapeless, ponder- 
ous, yet withal immaterial figure, — thus it instantly 
prefigured itself to my imagination. When, at last, 
I ventured to describe this conception to the great 
master (it was when standing with him in his private 
studio adjoining his home in Meudon), his blue eye 
flashed with its peculiar electrical kindling, like the 
sudden light in far northern skies when — 

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". . . the shies of night were alive with light, with 
a throbbing, thrilling flame" 

and he immediately responded that this was precisely 
the conception that he had in mind when he modeled 
that strange, fantastic, uncanny figure. No wonder 
that it incited a storm and fury of criticism. It was 
not a work to be viewed with indifferent admiration 
or depreciation. It insisted upon being either adored, 
or detested, as might be. To the sculptor himself 
it was one of the most intimate and treasured of all 
his creations. It is, indeed, the visible embodiment 
of all the Comedie Humaine. 

The home of Rodin was one of plain comfort. There 
was no beauty of furnishing or decoration. Madame 
Rodin, a tall, slightly-bent figure, waited on the table 
at lunch and spoke only in reply to some remark, but 
her smile was kindly, and her desire to offer a cordial 
hospitality was manifested. Unlearned in social 
graces, she was yet a woman of sterling qualities, and 
her famous husband ascribed to her care and sustain- 
ing helpfulness much of the success he had achieved. 
As treasured souvenirs of this visit, M. Rodin pre- 
sented me with several signed photographs of his work, 
including that interesting group of sculpture, "Victor 
Hugo and his Muse," with inscriptions, and also with 
the cast of his bust of Victor Hugo. 

It was owing to the kind suggestion of my old Bos- 
ton friend, Anna Klumpke, who at this time was the 
guest of Rosa Bonheur, engaged in painting the por- 
trait of the great French artist, that there came to me 
from Mademoiselle Bonheur an invitation to pass the 

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week-end with her, and I stepped from the train at 
Thomery to be met by her footman and conducted 
to the victoria in which the great artist herself awaited 
me, the reins in her hand. She was in her man's 
attire, and looked like a very refined little old gentle- 
man, with the most courtly of manners. Her white 
hair was short and parted on one side; but the blue, 
luminous eyes contradicted any suggestion of age, 
and shone with the radiance of youth and enthusiasm. 
Her forehead was very beautiful and recalled Mrs. 
Browning's line of being "royal with the truth." 
There was a sunny brightness and an absolute sim- 
plicity and frankness about her, combined, too, with 
an undefined sense of loftiness and poise, that made up 
a fascinating combination. 

Rosa Bonheur would have been a great woman even 
had she not been a great artist. She was not merely, 
nor even mostly, the greatest of women painters; 
the woman transcended the artist, and her remarkable 
qualities claim precedence even over her remarkable 
gifts. She had a nobility of character, an intellectual 
vigor, a comprehensive outlook on life, that trans- 
posed one to a higher plane. She had almost incal- 
culable will-power, yet in ordinary affairs she was as 
pliable as a child. She was invincible in a certain 
innate power to conquer circumstances; she had led 
an early life of limitations and privations, yet she 
apparently never regarded this period as a struggle, 
or as an experience to be at all commiserated. This 
normal joyousness of temperament, this perfectly 
healthful and poised nature, made the conditions 
possible for the larger success of her powers. She had 

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evidently never wasted time in any morbid self-pity, 
or in regrets; she took the conditions as they were, 
without especial scrutiny, and pressed on to her own 
creations. She impressed me at once as having a 
certain realization of herself as a citizen of the universe, 
with abounding freedom, joy, and the unmeasured 
energy that attends such an attitude. 

The drive from the station to her chateau, at the 
little dSpendance of By, was through a green twilight 
of the vast forests of Fontainebleau. There had been 
a heavy rain in the night, and the trees were still 
dripping, while the density of the foliage made the 
woodland interior seem like a mysterious sea cavern, 
all in green. I thought of the Blue Grotto of Capri. 
It was hardly more definite in its aspects. And how 
classic was all this ground, where Millet and Courbet 
and Diaz had painted and lived. 

The chateau appeared as a three-story brick house, 
with additions that had been built for convenience 
with little regard to any architectural beauty, placed 
in spacious grounds which were separated from the 
surrounding forests by a wire fence. The interior 
seemed domestic rather than artistic, but I had not 
then seen the studio intime. In the late afternoon 
she took me into this unique apartment, not too often 
opened to any one outside the special circle; but 
she had so taken Anna Klumpke into her heart that 
any friend of Anna's shared in the privileges. Propped 
against the walls on every side were vast stacks of 
canvases. She began showing them to me. Sketches, 
studies, finished works; landscapes, genre, and animal 
pieces. One I especially recall was a forest scene of 

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campers; the tall trees nearly obscured the sky; 
in a glade a campfire burned, the blue smoke curling 
upward, and a group were gathered about, one woman 
having the face and air of a sibyl. It was all so vital 
that one instinctively listened for the sound of their 
voices. The leaves fairly quivered on the branches 
of the trees, and the sunlight flickered. In this studio 
were her favorite personal books. I recall the poems 
of Ossian, which she said were to her a series of land- 
scapes, pictures rather even than poetry; there were 
many volumes of travel and some especially dealing 
with archaeology, a science that fascinated her. As 
is well known, Rosa Bonheur left her entire estate to 
Anna Klumpke, and soon after her death Miss Klumpke 
entered upon her biography x of the illustrious artist. 
It is in two large and sumptuous volumes, profusely 
illustrated, with full-page reproductions of several of 
Rosa Bonheur's greatest paintings, as "Le Labourage 
nivernais," and "Le Marche aux chevaux," the 
latter of which is in the Metropolitan Museum in New 
York. This biography, which has never been trans- 
lated into English (a task that the author of it will 
herself essay when the war is over), is the most inti- 
mate and interesting of anything that has been written 
of Mademoiselle Bonheur's life. The autographed 
copy of it that came to me from Miss Klumpke I 
indulged myself in presenting to the Public Library 
of Boston, where it is placed in the Fine Arts depart- 
ment. 

The chateau of Rosa Bonheur now serves a need of 
which its owner would have little dreamed. In this 

1 Rosa Bonheur: Sa vie; Son ceuvre. Flammarion; Paris. 1908. 

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large upper studio and the largest salon on the floor 
below, Miss Klumpke has had placed twenty beds, 
which are constantly occupied by convalescent soldiers, 
and a little group of nurses are engaged to superintend 
their care. Pictures painted by Rosa Bonheur are 
on the walls to gladden the eyes of the soldiers, and 
thus Art ministers to Service. 

The artistic interest of the Exposition of 1900 was 
simply unprecedented and remains to this day un- 
paralleled. The vast and numerous galleries of the 
Grand Palais de Beaux- Arts offered not only the work 
of the modern French artists, but those from practi- 
cally every nation of the world. 

In the galleries devoted to the modern French art 
there were a few men, new and old, Benjamin Con- 
stant, Adrien Demont, Eugene Carriere, Jean Beraud, 
Paul Albert Besnard, Maurice Boutet de Monvel, 
Leon Bonnat, Raphael Colin, Dagnan-Bouveret, 
Georges Clairin, Jules Breton, Carlus Duran; and 
Georges Vibert, Jean Frangois Raffaelli, Leon Augustin 
L'hermitte, Antonio de la Gandara, whose work was 
then sufficiently novel to stand out strikingly. 

If the star of Benjamin Constant had seemed to be 
declining, the group of portraits displayed in this 
exposition went far to counteract so despondent a 
view. Especially was his portrait of Queen Victoria 
(purchased later by Edward VII) one of the master- 
pieces. It is an interpretation of majesty, of serene 
poise, of presence. The pose is ingenious in con- 
cealing the defects of the figure. The Queen is seated 
in a high, richly carved chair with arms; her feet, 
which are concealed by her gown, resting on a footstool, 

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and a ray of sunlight falling just at the left of her 
chair, on the walls, and on the floor. She is sitting in 
a rich interior, with the light falling over the right 
shoulder. She is represented in court costume, with 
priceless laces and jewels, and the blue ribbon and 
other orders on her corsage. As a matter of technique, 
the painting of the transparent laces, of the flashing 
jewels, of the rich, dark carvings, and the rays of 
sunshine, are wonderful in their perfection, as is the 
painting of the face and of the hands. M. Constant 
has certainly equaled the greatest portrait art of the 
day, as exemplified by Sargent or by Bonnat. The 
countenance is full of expression, of life, of mobile play 
of thought. In it is written a history. 

Another notable work of M. Benjamin Constant 
is the portrait of Mile. Calve — one that represents 
the complex, impassioned, brilliant, impetuous, and 
yet deeply thoughtful character of the great lyric 
artist, almost more adequately than even her own 
presence. That is to say, he divined and painted 
qualities that one feels in her, but which her own 
personality does not so fully express as does the paint- 
er's portrayal of her, and this fact brings the work 
within the realm of psychological painting, and that 
intuitive grasp of spiritual clairvoyance that marks 
the highest order of portraiture. Mile. Calve has a 
liberal endowment of mysticism in her temperament. 
She is Oriental in her personality, with her vivid 
coloring, her impassioned, and yet dreamy, face, and 
a certain languor of atmosphere which one feels might, 
at any instant, give way to the most intense portrayal, 
or betrayal, of feeling. 

C 191 ] 



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M. Constant portrays her standing, the right hand 
resting on a table, the left grasping an opera cloak of 
dark red velvet, which half slips from her shoulders. 
The head is a little on one side, inclined to the right, 
the eyes cast down, the whole expression languorous 
and dreamy, yet a languor and a dream that may 
flash and flame at any instant into vivid intensity and 
power. One stands before the figure with a sense of 
being near a volcanic-like temperament, or of walking 
over a lava bed, not knowing what any minute might 
reveal. The costume is decollete, with long sleeves 
and ruffles falling low Over the hand, and the line of the 
half-falling opera cloak falls across the gown in front 
in graceful drapery. The tone is in deep rose-red, 
the rich red of the darkest shades of the jacqueminot, 
which reveals the pronounced brunette beauty of 
Emma Calve to the utmost advantage. 

Adrien Louis Dement was a name that first became 
known by the ideal works he exhibited at that time. 
One called "La Nue" portrayed great masses of 
billowy clouds, rose-red from the setting sun, rolling 
up in the sky, the dusk of twilight falling over a long 
stretch of land, the brilliant glow of the setting sun on 
the clouds that seem to change and float before the 
gaze. "Les Danai'des" was a fascinating ideal con- 
ception of a mythical figure lifting her head from the 
rocks, gazing into a burning crater, while the flames 
are reflected and repeated in the sea, and the back- 
ground is shrouded in the deepening darkness and 
mysterious gloom. In all the pictures making up the 
group by Demont is seen this same wonderful insight 
into the powers of earth and air, into things invisible 

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to the ordinary eye. Nature reveals herself to M. 
Demont in a thousand subtle ways, and his genius 
interprets her hidden meanings. 

And Eugene Carriere? He was represented by 
portraiture and by realistic and ideal conceptions. 
There were portraits of three French women, and one 
of Paul Verlaine, the poet; there is a transcription 
of a scene at the theater, when the auditorium is 
darkened and the audience is breathlessly watching 
the lighted stage, and there are besides the "etude" 
of an ideal head, and another called Le Sommeil y 
and a conception of Christ en Croix. All these are 
in monotones of black and white. The power of the 
artist as a draughtsman is remarkable. 

Raphael Collin was one of the latter-day French 
artists whose imaginative conceptions extended the 
glory of French art. Collin lived in the country, 
where he had a chateau with large grounds; but his 
studio in the Rue Vaugirard in Paris was open on 
Sunday afternoons, and here he received his friends. 
With Chavannes, Collin shared the magic of creating 
those ethereal figures that seem to float in the air. 
Among his memorable canvases presented in the Grand 
Palais during the exposition, or in salons of other 
years, was one entitled Au Bord de la Mer, showing 
a group of nymphs on the seashore with a background 
of blue water; and other canvases whose composition, 
coloring, and atmosphere were indescribably lovely. 

Collin's studio held surprises — as well as pictures. 
For Monsieur le Professeur is a great collector of 
oriental art — and his glass cabinets of vases, porce- 
lains, and Tanagra figures would delight a connoisseur. 

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He has one Buddha of nearly life size, besides one or 
two lesser ones, and his enamels, his Assyrian antiqui- 
ties, form a most valuable and rare collection. Several 
portraits revealed his art in that entirely different 
branch of art from the decorative. Again Collin is 
famous as an illustrator. 

The Salon d'Automne usually held a striking array 
of work, not devoid of the grotesque, as well as with 
claim to serious attention. One of the strange cre- 
ations in this salon, one autumn, was Enckell's "La 
Resurrection," where a group of fantastic figures had 
apparently risen from the ground. They recalled 
a French critic's characterization of some of the figures 
of Eugene Carriere, as "mysterious interpretations, 
invocations of souls," to leave an impress on the 
records of art. 

At the time of the death of Edmond de Goncourt, 
there was much interest felt in a work for which his 
will made provision, the founding of an Academie de 
Goncourt, to stand for the higher order of culture and 
to relieve its members (which were limited to ten) 
from the precarious struggle for existence by provid- 
ing them with a foundation. Each one of the ten 
members was to receive an income of six thousand 
francs paid to him so long as he fulfilled the conditions 
of membership. These conditions were that he should 
not be a political man; not a wealthy aristocrat; 
not the holder of any office; and not a member or 
a candidate for membership of the French Academy. 
It was the aim of Monsieur de Goncourt to serve 
those who followed the Muse with no undivided heart, 
and to whom her rich rewards do not take the form of 

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a bank account. The fund for this foundation was to 
be obtained from the sale of his library containing a 
great number of choice books and rare editions; of 
his Japanese collection of art; and of all his manu- 
scripts, pictures, and furniture. As members of this 
Academy he named Alphonse Daudet, Octave Mir- 
beau, Leon Hennique, Gustave Geffroy, Paul Margue- 
ritte, the Rosny freres, and Huysmans. He also stipu- 
lated that a Prix de Goncourt, of five thousand francs, 
should be given annually to the member who had 
produced the best novel, history, or collection of short 
stories. One provision of his will was that the com- 
plete manuscript of the "Journal de Goncourt," which 
had not been published, should be deposited at the 
Bibliotheque Nationale to remain twenty years before 
being published. An annual dinner for the members 
of the Academy was provided for out of the funds. 
The Princess Mathilde had been a great friend of 
Edmond de Goncourt, and to her he bequeathed his 
statue of Venus, by Falconet. Edmee Daudet was his 
god-daughter and she was remembered with a legacy 
and the provision that it was to be used to complete 
the pearl necklace for which he had always given 
her one pearl on every New Year's Day. The Villa 
de Goncourt in Auteuil was the scene of a remarkable 
gathering on the day of the funeral. All those named 
as members of the Academy were present, with Zola, 
Silvestre, Mounet-Sully, Madame Re jane, Roger Marx, 
and Charpentier. The tapestry-hung salon, the nu- 
merous Watteaus, the ebony dado of the salon in rich 
Byzantine red, made an interesting interior. The 
literary gathering at the villa lasted some two hours 

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preceding the funeral ceremonies, which were held in 
a neighboring church. 

When Captain and Mrs. Frank Holcomb Mason 
came to Paris where Captain Mason was commissioned 
as Consul General for the United States, following his 
twenty-five years of official life in Berlin, Frankfort, 
and Marseilles, a new and beautiful social force made 
itself felt in the American colony. The home of the 
Masons in the Rue de la Pompe was, as Colonel Wat- 
terson observed, "a close second to the Embassy"; 
and it offered such warmth of individual welcome 
as to discourage any comparisons. They not only 
offered the due courtesies and hospitalities of the 
consulate, but they gave individual sympathies, 
friendships, and a sense of companionship. 

They were both natives of Ohio, where Captain 
Mason was born in 1840. He became a commissioned 
officer in the Civil War. Later he became the editor 
of the Cleveland Leader which was one of the strong, 
perhaps even determining, factors in the election of 
Garfield to the presidency; and this aid was recog- 
nized by giving its editor the consulship to Basle, 
as both he and Mrs. Mason wished to go abroad. 
From 1880 to 1884 they remained in Switzerland. 
The new consul introduced a vigor and method that 
fairly transformed that branch of the service. "Mason 
is not only our best consular officer," said John Hay, 
of the Department of State, "but he may be said to 
have created the service as it is to-day; and when any 
new appointee asks me for advice, I invariably tell 
him to study Mason's reports." It was Captain Ma- 
son who inaugurated the custom of sending home full 

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accounts of business conditions, of manufacturing 
methods, and of new openings for trade. In 1895 
he was transferred to Paris, and he was one of the four 
commissioners sent to Berlin to negotiate a new com- 
mercial agreement between Germany and his own 
country. He was a member of the Franco-American 
Commission to decide on new customhouse regulations 
between the two countries. On this occasion he was 
endowed by his government with diplomatic rank. 

During all this changeful period Mrs. Mason made 
her place in the social life hardly less important than 
his in diplomatic relations. A most engaging and 
lovely personality, sympathetic, intuitive, with the 
kindest heart in the world, with tact, discretion, and 
an exquisite graciousness, she was universally be- 
loved. Mrs. Mason was the president of the Paris 
branch of the Lyceum Club; she lent her name and 
her unselfish efforts to every good cause that con- 
tributed to the welfare of American life abroad. 

In this lovely home in the Rue de la Pompe center 
all my own dearest memories of Paris. Intensely 
as one might prize the vast and varied interests of 
the French Capital, its great resources in art, its privi- 
leges and opportunities of every order, yet what are 
all these compared with the beauty and the blessedness 
of a perfect friendship with wholly noble people? 
To be with the Masons as a guest among other guests 
had its unforgettable charm; but the choicest hours to 
me were those when we were alone, the great world 
shut out, and confidences unrestrained. In the late 
afternoon Mrs. Mason would often drive down in her 
motor to the Consul General's office which was almost 

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opposite my hotel, and they would then call for me 
and we would return to their apartment for the cosy 
little dinner and the subsequent adjournment to Mrs. 
Mason's morning room, which afforded a setting 
intime more perfect than the salon devoted to enter- 
taining guests. Then would we enter on that lovely 
evening for which the day was made. We cared 
for the same books, the same lines of thought and 
research, we had an endless array of mutual friends; 
we were all Americans in this Parisian environment 
and the bond of country never seems so strong as when 
compatriots meet in a foreign land. No social priv- 
ileges possible to Paris could weigh with me for one 
second beside these evenings alone with Frank and 
Jenny Mason. Every talk we had served only to 
deepen and extend my appreciation of the beauty 
of mind, the graces of heart, the exaltation of spirit 
that characterized them both. 

In the spring of 1914 Captain Mason resigned the 
office of Consul General which he had invested with 
such importance and value to his government. He 
was then seventy-four years of age. He had fought 
the good fight. He had a modest competence on 
which to live, and both he and Mrs. Mason wished 
to devote the remainder of their stay on earth to their 
family and their almost world-wide circle of friends. 

The American Chamber of Commerce in Paris 
made the occasion of Captain Mason's retirement 
from consular service one on which to express their 
appreciation and friendship. They gave a banquet 
in his honor at which the addresses were eloquent in 
recognition of his exceptional qualities, and presented 

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the guest of the evening with a magnificent silver 
service with inscriptions. 

In the early summer of that year Captain and 
Mrs. Mason came to their own country for a more or 
less prolonged stay. It was the first holiday leisure 
that Captain Mason had ever enjoyed during his 
crowded life, for, from the time when he went from 
college, a youth of twenty-one, into the Civil War, 
there had been no appreciable interval between his 
exacting commissions. The Masons looked forward 
to a few delightful months in the States and then a 
return to Paris. The French Capital had become 
truly home to them; they were as familiar with the 
language as with their own; they enjoyed French 
art and literature, and they had a multitude of friends 
among the native Parisians. In no city in the world 
is life more easy, more brilliant, more satisfying than 
it was in Paris up to the fatal midsummer day of 1914. 
But the war broke out. For a time all was uncer- 
tainty. For the winter of 1914-1915 the Masons had 
established themselves at the Holland House in New 
York, where for a time they watched the progress of 
events. It became apparent that there was work to be 
done in Paris along relief and other lines. Cap- 
tain Mason could not hear this unmoved. Both he and 
Mrs. Mason felt the call of humanity. In February 
they sailed for France and entered at once, on their 
arrival in Paris, upon the active and incessant work 
to alleviate human suffering. Captain Mason took 
the direction of the aid for the Belgian sufferers who 
poured into Paris, providing homes and care for 
destitute children and aid to the hospital needs, and 

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Mrs. Mason worked with him, side by side. They 
imparted encouragement, hope; they inspired faith in 
fainting hearts, and fairly radiated new energy. There 
was no limit to this incessant service; and from entire 
exhaustion Captain Mason passed away in the May 
of 1916. Mrs. Mason survived him only till the 
following October, and for all who loved them there 
could be only rejoicing that she had been permitted 
to rejoin the husband she idolized. No soldier on 
the field of battle ever more truly died for his coun- 
try than did Frank Holcomb Mason. He could have 
remained in the States in comfort and ease, but he 
saw the opportunity for this essential service. Fa- 
miliar with the language, the habits, and the resources 
of French life they felt the responsibility that fitness 
for work always brings; and nothing in all the heroic 
devotion and sacrifice that is being so nobly given in 
this war can exceed the story of this last illuminated 
chapter in their lives. 

The cyclonic changes which the world is now under- 
going are tending to a complete revision and readjust- 
ment of all the problems of the State and of the 
individual. A new era of Art, of Science, of Litera- 
ture, is doubtless to arise within a not distant future. 
At this writing, the arts are in abeyance, Paris knows 
the annual spring Salon no more, and all progress 
pauses on its way until the war shall end and the 
world again enter on its nobler activities. The beauty 
of Paris is fadeless, and one cannot but dream of other 
summers to come when again shall happy throngs 
appear in the Champs Elysees under the white blos- 
soms of the horse-chestnut trees; when the massive 

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doors of the Grand Palais des Beaux-Arts shall again 
open widely, and the galleries be filled with even 
greater art in this magic awakening to a world created 
anew. One can but dream of this future. As Sully- 
Prudhomme wrote:' 

"Ici-bas tous les lilas meurent; 

Tous les chants des oiseaux sont courts; 
Je reve aux etes qui demeurent, 
Toujours!" 



[201] 



IX 

FRIENDS AND DAYS IN LONDON 

"Men and women make the world 
As head and heart make human life." 

Aurora Leigh 

LORD MORLEY, in his incomparable "Recol- 
lections," notes the cosmopolitan quality of 
London society. The English peerage, as a rule, has 
never stood for any mere self-indulgent luxury. It 
has used its wealth and that freedom for leisure that 
wealth insures, not for mere gaiety, but as a foun- 
dation for the transmutation of time into achievement. 
Either by personal application, or by sympathetic 
aid to those especially adapted for personal appli- 
cation to art, science, literature, exploration, invention, 
statesmanship, its resources have signally contributed 
to all that makes for progress. With such an outlook 
as this on the social horizon, it will readily be seen how 
those persons who have distinguished themselves in 
any of the many directions that contribute to the 
advancement of humanity would readily and inevitably 
be welcomed in the choicest social gatherings. In 
a word, society in London has always cherished cer- 
tain lofty ideals which has differentiated it entirely 
from the society of other European capitals. In no 
city is there a closer alliance between beauty, fashion, 

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and culture with genius. The dinners are brilliant 
in conversational resources, and if a man has dis- 
covered the South Pole, or made a successful flight 
between London and Rome, or written a great poem, 
or play; if he is a successful novelist, a Parliamen- 
tarian, or an explorer who has penetrated into the 
interior of South Africa, or the fastnesses of the Hima- 
layas, or has promulgated a new religion, or taken a 
medal at the Paris salon, he is in no want of flattering 
efforts to "secure" him as a guest. 

No London personality could stand out more in- 
vitingly than that of the Very Reverend Doctor Basil 
Wilberforce, Venerable Archdeacon of Westminster. 
He was the son of the famous Bishop of Oxford and 
the grandson of the great Parliamentarian and liber- 
ator, William Wilberforce, whose statue is in Parlia- 
ment and to whom there is also a memorial monument 
in Westminster Abbey. 

Albert Basil Orme Wilberforce graduated from 
Oxford in 1865 and in the same year married Charlotte 
Langford, a brilliant young woman who had been 
chiefly educated in Paris and whose literary culture was 
extensive. She was a linguist, familiar with all the 
Romance languages, reading their literatures in the 
original. There was about Mrs. Wilberforce a quality 
that recalled Doctor Holmes's requirement that "there 
should be something about a woman that made you 
glad to have her come near." 

The Wilberforce home was in Dean's Yard, ap- 
proached through the arches of the Abbey wall, a 
house whose atmosphere was that of antiquity. It 
was noted as one of the most delightful social centers 

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of London. Nothing could exceed that gracious 
hospitality, that cordial welcome, of the Archdeacon 
and Mrs. Wilberforce. They were both fond of 
travel; they visited India, and were often on the 
continent and in Rome. 

One of the charms of my London sojourns comes 
back to me in remembering my Sunday luncheons 
with them, on returning from morning service at 
St. John's, and my stay until the Archdeacon's three 
o'clock service in the Abbey, for which crowds would 
begin to gather two hours before the opening of the 
doors. Their social life knew no bounds of creed or 
caste; royalty, statesmen and diplomats, artists, 
reformers, workers, all frequented the modest home 
in its quaint surroundings. 

The central truth of the teachings of Archdeacon 
Wilberforce is that the consciousness of man is capable 
of constant enlargement, and that by this growth 
man approaches more and more nearly to God. With 
this enlargement of consciousness man comes into the 
grasp of larger powers; and the result of this is the 
ability to cooperate with the divine consciousness 
and thus, literally, do God's will on earth. The 
Archdeacon laid great emphasis on Prayer. He 
considered it a force, indeed the greatest of all forces, 
and that, scientifically speaking, the linking of the 
divine current within the soul with the divine current 
without produced the result of a completed circuit. 
The results are "according to the power that worketh 
in us." The human soul he held to be a spiritual 
dynamo, generating spiritual electricity from a mag- 
netic field as wide as the universe. 

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There were other lovely and never-to-be-forgotten 
hours in London at the home of Mrs. Ellicott, in 
Great Cumberland Place, near the Marble Arch, 
where interesting people were always to be met. 
Mrs. Ellicott was the widow of one of the most dis- 
tinguished prelates of his time in the Church of Eng- 
land, — the Lord Bishop of Gloucester. The privilege 
of meeting and knowing Mrs. Ellicott had opened to 
me through a letter from her in the early years of the 
twentieth century. This letter reached me in Paris, 
and ran: 

35, Great Cumberland Place 
Marble Arch, London, W. May 20th, 1907. 

Dear Miss Whiting: 

I have been following your footsteps, and, finding 
you now in Paris, I cannot help hoping that you may 
come to London. My dear friend, Archdeacon Wilber- 
force, often speaks of you, and we are both longing to 
see you. I know you already in your delightful book, 
"The Spiritual Significance," which has been my 
daily bread for years. My dear husband, the Bishop 
of Gloucester, in his last illness, marked in a tremulous 
hand many passages which I should like to show you, 
and I may tell you privately that the book produced 
a great change in his views of the after life. I hope 
you will not think me intrusive in addressing you, 
but with my knowledge of your inner life it is im- 
possible to feel you a stranger. I am 

Yours in Sympathy, 

Constantia A. Ellicott. 
The next letter ran: 

... It was a great joy to receive your charming 
letter, for I began to fear that you thought me intrusive 
in writing to you; it has required all the self-restraint 

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I possess to refrain from pouring out my heart to you 
ever since I had a close intimacy with your wonderful 
book, and had I been aware of a reliable address I 
should long ago have sought you. It is a great disap- 
pointment to my dear friend, Mrs. Hoare, and myself, 
that you are deferring your visit to London; but I 
hope that when you do come, I shall have the happi- 
ness to see you. We shall be at Birchington near 
Margate during August and September; (when I say 
"we" I mean my daughter, my greatest treasure, and 
myself) and I hope to persuade you to spare us a few 
days if you will be so benevolent. 

I am anxious that this note shall greet you on your 
arrival in Boston, so I will close without delay. 

Believe me ever 

Gratefully and Sincerely Yours, 

Constantia A. Ellicott. 

The months flew past and the winter of 1907-1908 
found me in Rome, and brought to Mrs. Ellicott a 
serious illness. In the spring she partially recovered 
and under date of March 13th she wrote: — 

... I do hope in a few weeks to be in a better 
condition. I need not say how much I look forward 
to the long-hoped-for pleasure of seeing you and 
talking over the wonder of your matchless book. I 
feel shamefully unworthy of the honor you do me in 
the dedication of your new book. 1 ... I am sending 
this to the Hotel Boston in Rome in the hope that it 
may reach you before you leave for England. . . . 

But one does not forsake Rome in March, with the 
ineffable beauty of the spring coming on; and what 
with Italian lingerings and a stay in Paris, it was well 

1 "Life Transfigured." Little, Brown, and Company. 1908. 

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into June before I found myself in London. Then 
came the cordial and dear welcome from Mrs. Ellicott. 

... I am so longing to see you alone (she writes), 
that I am not inviting any one for this first time. 
Our first talk must be private. Dear Mrs. Hoare is 
inviting us to meet you at the luncheon she gives for 
you on June 20th, and I am thankful to be able to 
again enjoy the society of my friends after these months 
of suffering. 

The book which I had indulged myself in dedicating 
to this gracious and beloved friend came out duly, 
and in reply to the copy sent her she wrote: 

The lovely book reached me this morning and I 
had a delightful hour with it before leaving my room. 
I hid my face when I read the dedication; I feel so 
unworthy of all you say of me that I can only hope 
the humiliation is good for my soul! I am longing 
more than ever before to see you. When are you 
coming? . . . 

Among the devoted friends of the Lord Bishop of 
Gloucester was Mrs. Home, who, under date of July 
4, 1907, thus wrote to Mrs. Ellicott who passed on 
the letter to me: 

Ivy House, Highgate, July 4, 1907. 

My Dear Mrs. Ellicott, — 

I was so glad to get your dear letter this morning 
and much interested in the enclosed from Lilian 
Whiting. I can fancy what a happiness it must be 
for her to know that what she wrote had been read 
and approved by one so great and so saintly as the 
dear Bishop of Gloucester. Her books have been an 
inspiration to me. I confess that much that one 
hears in the church fails when one needs uplifting. 

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... I had a letter today from a dear American friend 
who says; "In one of our most prominent Episcopal 
churches in Boston, Doctor Worcester, the rector, and 
an eminent psychologist and earnest Christian, has 
opened special services. Crowds go to the church 
and some call it the clearing-house of much of the 
sorrow and trouble of the city. I believe he is the 
spiritual successor of Phillips Brooks." It was delight- 
ful to see you again and Miss Ellicott, and to hear her 
sing. ... I value your friendship, dear Mrs. Ellicott, 
so greatly. 

Through 1910 came fragmentary notes, all bearing 
testimony of her rapidly failing health, till she passed 
to rejoin the husband she adored and with whom her 
life had been one unbroken dream of happiness. 

In one of his felicitous quatrains one finds William 
Watson saying: 

"'Tis human fortune's happiest height to be 

A spirit melodious, lucid, poised, and whole; 
Second, in order of felicity, 

I hold it, to have walked with such a soul." 

To no one could these lines be more applicable than 
to the lovely and beloved Mrs. Ellicott, whose gracious 
friendship left me with a legacy of gratitude that I 
had been permitted, even for a brief period, to ap- 
proach her path, to 

"... walk with such a soul." 

A brief, or, rather, an intermittent interchange of 
letters with the Irish poet and story-writer, Jane 
Barlow, held its own interest. 

On my return from Europe in the late autumn of 

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1900, I found awaiting me a book and letter from 
Jane Barlow, which read as follows: 

Lady-Day-in-Harvest, Aug. 15, 1900. 
The Cottage, Raheny. 
. . . Lately I have read with very great interest 
your biography of Kate Field, and also your "After 
her Death"; and I now venture to hope that you 
will accept the accompanying little story-book as a 
trifling acknowledgment of the pleasure your volumes 
have given me. "Mrs. Martin's Company," being 
based on a tradition current in the south-west of 
Ireland, with perhaps some foundation in fact, may 
possibly interest you through its relation to the Unseen; 
although you are yourself so fortunate as to possess 
intimations thereof far clearer and more satisfactory. 
Faithfully Yours 

Jane Barlow. 

If anything would incline one to hope that the 
Theosophical tenet of rebirth into this life were true, 
it would be the haunting sense of the things left un- 
done that we should have done. Miss Barlow, out of 
her secluded life, though one that was companioned 
by high intelligences and splendor of thought, in- 
variably replied to any letter of mine at once; and had 
I been as swift in expressing in visible form the rush 
of mental response that always went out to her, it is 
possible that her own treasured letters to me might 
have been many times multiplied. As it was, life 
called to me with a thousand voices; the days were 
never long enough for all the interests they held of 
work and friends and movements; and sometimes 
even years slipped in between her latest letter to me 
and my reply. 

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The next letter from her was as follows: 

The Cottage 
Raheny, Co. Dublin, December 26, 1900. 

Dear Miss Whiting; 

How can I thank you for sending me your beautiful 
"Spiritual Significance?" It is charming to behold, 
and the reading of it has been a great pleasure to me 
as I am sure it must have been to many others this 
Christmas. A few days ago I came upon a stanza 
in a poem by Robert Bridges; 

"Ah, little, at best, can all our hopes avail us, 
To lift this sorrow, or cheer us in the dark, 

Unwillingly, alone, we embark, 
And the things we have seen and have known, and 
have heard of, fail us." 

It associates itself in my thoughts with your volume, 
because just this sorrow is what "The Spiritual Signifi- 
cance" does help to lighten and dispel with an assurance 
that the things familiar to us' will not fail us utterly 
after all. 

There is much more that I want to write about, but 
time presses to-day and I do not like to let another 
mail go without sending you a word of thanks, so I 
must defer the rest for awhile, and with kindest regards 
remain 

Yours very sincerely and gratefully 

Jane Barlow. 

Later there followed: 

The Cottage 
Raheny, Co. Dublin 

Feb. 15, 1901. 
My Dear Lilian Whiting, — 

I It was very good of you to write at all; and you 
need in no wise fear to lose me; it seems to me much 
more likely that you will have occasion to be wearied 

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with the keening of an old Irish Banshee. I have 
been waiting for a thaw to write to you. I don't 
mean to pretend that our ink has been congealed, an 
experience which people are reported to have lived 
through, though I never can imagine how they manage 
to survive it; but we are enduring what we consider 
a very cold snap, and that always makes me dull and 
idealess. Unfortunately there is no prospect of warmer 
weather being on its way, so I won't further postpone 
my letter. I intended writing yesterday, but our 
very ancient cook arrived to visit me and that filled 
the afternoon. However, I can now give you her 
views on the political situation, which may perhaps 
interest you. Her opinion is that the Ministers will 
not be able to control the King as they did the poor 
Queen, and that he will consequently insist on making 
peace at once and will also put Mr. Chamberlain out 
of his place, for stirring up the war, and breaking the 
Queen's heart. You are most kind to send me your 
series of "The World Beautiful." I have them all 
and have read them with the greatest interest. I 
really think that I feel no doubt about communion 
with the world of spirit, were it not for my fear of 
believing what I most wish. For my philosophy is 
far from being so pleasant (and I hope) so wise as 
yours. On the contrary, I am always prone to adopt 
as an article of belief, It is too good to be true! Still 
I should be loth to deny that this may be a silly creed. 
Like many other people I have been much grieved 
lately by the death of Frederic W. H. Myers, and I 
am earnestly hoping that he may be able to send us 
an authentic, convincing message from the other side. 
On this side he will be an irreparable loss to our Psychi- 
cal Research Society. 

I think you will visit Ireland one of these days, but 
I fear that my journey to Boston must wait until we 
have Stephen Phillips's "Mediterranean meadows and 
Atlantic lawns." Then I will joyfully step into some 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

wonderful electric chariot and be wafted across by a 
west wind redolent of the soul of our wild roses, or 
perhaps only of a whiff of our blue turf -smoke. Seri- 
ously, I do think it is a grand thing to have a poet 
like Phillips who has a large outlook into the Unseen, 
and does not produce either feeble sentimentalities, or 
coarse bluster. 

I hope that your book has been making much more 
satisfying progress than mine which creeps along 
abjectly, and often comes to a dead stop. Still, when 
I am sitting at my desk, I have the consciousness that 
I am at heart acting with great efficiency as a scare- 
crow. For the birds' crumbs are always scattered 
outside my window, and if no one were visible, the 
crows, jackdaws, and magpies would descend and 
devour them. As it is, they don't venture to come 
too near, though as an object lesson in inordinate 
greed their behavior could hardly be surpassed. Some- 
times I wonder if Higher Intelligences are watching 
our proceedings with the same kind of sentiment. 
I have written you a long letter about nothing, the 
grateful part excepted, and that is too short. 

Very Sincerely Yours 

Jane Barlow. 
Another (undated) letter reads: — 

. . . Your letter seemed to me rather like a com- 
munication from another world, partly because of the 
wide tract of time through which I look to its prede- 
cessor, but more because of experiences. . . . Two 
persons could hardly lead lives more dissimilar than 
yours and mine; you, such a traveler, with (I hope) 
all manner of pleasant and interesting adventures, and 
I such an inveterate stay-at-home. I was never very 
migratory, but for the last years since my dear father's 
health failed, I have seldom gone beyond our little 
garden. ... Of course this short tether has its disad- 
vantages and like Chaucer's folk I sometimes long to 

[212] 



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go on pilgrimages, but I am so thankful to have still 
a reason for home keeping. How did you ever find 
time to produce such a long list of books? I have 
read most of them with great interest, especially the 
two volumes about Kate Field. I am looking forward 
to your forthcoming life of the Brownings which 
promises to be very interesting. Mrs. Browning's 
poem, "A Musical Instrument," was the first real 
poem that I ever read, when I was a small child. I 
came across it in a bound volume of old Cornhill, and 
it caused me to resolve upon the spot that I would be 
a poet myself! To the splendid audacity of youth 
that seemed quite a simple matter. After that I 
saw no more of her works till I was about sixteen when 
I acquired a volume of selections from her poems 
which gave me untold delight. Sometimes I hope 
that Robert Browning has fallen in with the original 
of "Sludge, the Medium," and formed a more favor- 
able opinion of his character. What you say about 
the Unseen interests me deeply. It is indeed a sub- 
ject which dwarfs every other into unimportance for 
people with sceptical minds and no psychic gifts, — 
until an absolute proof is obtained. I build high 
hopes. Without these hopes life in these latter years 
would grow terribly like those contracting chambers 
which the Inquisition devised for Venetian prisoners. 
You must forgive my writing stupidly. My father 
was ill all last week, but better this morning. I still 
write Irish stories and now and then some verses. I 
published an Irish novel, "Flaws," and, a few months 
earlier, "Mac's Adventure," a collection of stories 
about a small boy, which Swinburne liked, and which 
I inscribed to his memory. If I can come by a copy 
of my last volume of verse I will send it to you. 

Well, now, I am very glad to hear from you again, 
and I hope your next letter will not be dated 1921, as 
by that time my address may not improbably be 
"The Ether of Space!" Which the postal authorities, 

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even with a service of aeroplanes instituted, would 
consider insufficient. 

Believe me, Yours very sincerely, 

Jane Barlow. 

In one letter which, with that inherent depravity 
in inanimate things (if, indeed, a letter could ever be 
called inanimate) seems to have hidden itself, Miss 
Barlow told me that she had passed her life in the 
cottage in which she then wrote (this was before the 
removal from Raheny to Bray); "and much of my 
life in this very chair," she said, "in which I am now 
sitting." She went on to say that with the single 
exception of a brief visit to London and Paris in her 
early girlhood, she had never left her home. But 
there are those who do not need the outward experience 
of travel. The spirit has its own universe and makes 
excursions that we know not of. 

In the war period came this letter: 

Killarney Hill, Bray, Co. Wicklow, 
Feb. 21, 1916. 

... It is indeed kind of you, dear Miss Whiting, 
to remember me still. Your Canadian travel must 
have been full of interest and of charm, much of which 
I am sure you will transfer to your new book. . . . 
We are all at work for the hospitals and for the pris- 
oners of war who are in danger of starving. I write 
hardly anything now, except a little verse; I enclose 
one published in the London Nation. Perhaps the 
censor will not let it pass. He will not if he is a pro- 
German. 

I cannot face the future as optimistically as you do, 
dear Miss Whiting, but that is quite natural, for I am 
growing old, and the war comes closer to us than it 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

does to you. I have not one friend here to whom 
this war has not brought some bereavement. Several 
of my own family have fallen, though none very near 
to me, as my brothers are too old for soldiering. . . . 

Little did I dream when I read her playful words 
about her address being "The Ether of Space," that 
so soon they were to be literally fulfilled. In the 
August of 1917 she, who had so long lived the "clois- 
tered life," flitted afar, and made the wondrous journey 
into the ether of celestial spaces. 

A long series of letters from Edgar Fawcett, who 
during all the latter years of his life was a resident of 
London, often gave interesting glimpses of interesting 
people. Of Henry James I find him saying: 

Henry James has sent me his latest book, " Termina- 
tions." I regret that he is no longer the vividly 
appealing and sympathetic author of such work as 
"Roderick Hudson," "The Portrait of a Lady," and 
"The American." But his present status as a writer 
of English prose! Who that lives can touch it? What 
mastery of the English tongue! What incomparable 
subtlety! What matchless handling of words, what 
dewy literary freshness! Everything in English at 
present pales before it — that is, to the artist. But 
is this right? Ought it to be only the artist? Has 
not James deepened without broadening? There is 
the problem. Will posterity grant him what you and 
I give him? But posterity, — why do I speak of it? 
Sometimes I look on it as a gigantic, tyrannic caprice. 
It still laurels that arch humbug, Carlyle. . . . 

Carlyle, as well as Emerson, was a favorite bete 
noir of Mr. Fawcett, regarding whom no English was 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

too vigorous. Again, apropos of Henry James, he 
wrote: 

. . . Henry James! any one who called him "cold" 
must have been a person who approached him, — as 
genius is often approached, — in a spirit of discon- 
tented curiosity. . . . We spoke of many things and 
in every subject that we discussed I found his wise, 
yet unassuming converse blended with a self-effacement 
of unique charm. We spoke of his own work, and I 
told him how much he was admired. "The Tragic 
Muse," which, by the way, I have not yet read a line 
of, he regards as undoubtedly the best thing he has 
ever done, but he said this with a tone and manner 
that implied belief that no work of his had greatly 
pleased him. From the author of masterpieces like 
the "American" and others equally great, this com- 
plete absence of amour propre struck me as deliciously 
modest. * 

Of a visit to Swinburne he wrote: 

.... But after luncheon he took me into his 
study, which overlooks a beautiful garden in which 
gleams a statue of Venus bequeathed by Rossetti to 
his friend Watts. Then he showed me, with almost 
a boyish delight in their possession, many of his rare 
books. Afterward he read to me a new poem he had 
just written on Shakespeare, full of superb lines, and 
written with that incomparable lyric ardor which all 
who admire this great poet need only to see to admire. 

I recall one evening in London when Mr. Fawcett 
came to see me at the Alexandra Hotel where I was 
stopping, and we sat on the balcony overlooking 
Hyde Park, and his fluent and vivid conversational 
characterizations of many of the literary folk of the 

[216] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

day ran on amusingly, unsparingly. He was caustic, 
sarcastic, profuse in praise of that which appealed 
to him; a materialist of materialists; a fervent dis- 
ciple of Herbert Spencer, yet without that philosopher's 
breadth and vision; a joyous denouncer of all organ- 
ized religion about which he would say the most 
extravagant things; yet, withal, a lovable person was 
Edgar Fawcett, and we who knew him well only 
laughed at his boutades, as at a species of grown-up 
enfant terrible. His antagonisms were always vigor- 
ously and picturesquely expressed, but of deeper 
reality were the vitality and generosity of his friend- 
ships and his glad service for his friends was abounding. 
In my own case I received so much vigorous casti- 
gation from Mr. Fawcett throughout our long corre- 
spondence, which must have begun in the middle 
eighties, and was only terminated by his death in 
1906, that it should go far in mitigating the general 
severities with which I might appropriately be visited. 
My literary sins of omission and commission (which, 
indeed, offered a fruitful field for castigation) received 
his unsparing censure in these letters. 

Regarding some book review of mine at the time, 
the candid Edgar regaled me with the following en- 
couraging lines: 

I read with amazement last night your review of — 
How can you write so about that old fraud? His 
dull, mechanical, lifeless verse, all sentimental hypoc- 
risy! . . . All I can say is that I am glad for your 
own reputation that your article is unsigned. You 
may not be identified as the literary editor, and editorial 
anonymity is a good thing for you in this case. . . . 

[217] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

Again he wrote : — 

No, I have not read the diary of the French Marie 
with the Russian name. How does your eye manage 
to dart along the text of so many books, and to do so 
rememberingly? . . . The Ibsen cult seems to be a 
failure. 

With all these (and other) letters from well-known 
writers who were largely our mutual friends, I usually 
made my way to Mrs. Moulton's morning room, where 
stacks of her own letters from the more noted English 
authors of the day filled tables and overflowed in 
chairs (after the order of our craft). Many were 
mutually read and discussed with the freemasonry of 
friendship. In one letter Mr. Fawcett said: 

Henry James writes me that he will be back from 
Dover before October, when he hopes to have me 
dine with him at his home in Kensington. — The 
grandeur and beauty of London strike me more 
forcibly than ever. It seems to me that one could 
take a new walk here every day in the year and each 
day find something fresh to charm and interest him. 

In one springtime that found me in Florence, Mr. 
Fawcett wrote: 

I am wondering if you are still in Florence? I 
fancy it must be lovely there now. I can see the 
flower stalls near Cosimo de' Medici's purple statue, 
at the head of the Tornabuoni, and the little brilliant 
sunlit square of the Piazza della Signoria with its 
fascinating statue of Perseus by Cellini in green bronze. 
The "Browning" part of Florence never interested 
me a bit. I like your book; I think it very well done, 
and I should say it would find much favour with the 
public. But long ago I woke up to the fact that with 

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their characteristic high-handedness the English had 
taken possession of Italy to an absurd extent. Surely 
other poets besides Shelley and Keats have died there, 
and others besides Robert Browning have lived there. 
You know, I never could believe in Browning. I don't 
think he was a true artist, and apart from "Men and 
Women," and "Dramatis Personse," I think everything 
he wrote will soon perish. Indeed, it is already 
perishing, for the public of this generation no longer 
read it. Mrs. Browning, to my mind, wrote one very 
fine poem, "Aurora Leigh"; but it is entirely too long. 
It contains, however, passages of exquisite beauty and 
secure art. I can't say as much for anything else 
that she did. ... I am literally worn out with the 
way in which the Brownings have been Italianized. 
One would suppose no other Anglo-Saxons had ever 
dwelt there. I seem to have read about their taking 
tea on terraces and in loggias with people quite as 
important as themselves yet always somehow put 
relentlessly into the background. There is Landor; 
a nail of his little finger was worth Browning's whole 
body. I often feel that his mind was great as Shake- 
speare's, only he lacked the theatric faculty; for the 
dramatic faculty he surely possessed. How could you 
like Browning's palace at Venice? I should have died 
in its huge ugly rooms, and the cold there must have 
been boreal. It isn't a good palace, you know, at all; 
it has slight claim. 

Passages of fine literary criticism, and of the most 
amusingly unreasonable denunciations ran side by side 
in Mr. Fawcett's letters; but even the most emphatic 
expressions of his displeasures never impressed us 
very much, the little group of us who read, enjoyed, 
and laughed over these letters. They were as imper- 
sonal as a magazine article, and eminently fitted to be 

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shared among a coterie of the "literary group" of 
Boston. Edward Everett Hale, in his most delightful 
book of "Lowell and His Friends," records that Maria 
White kept Lowell's letters to her in an ornamental 
box on the drawing-room table and that they were 
read by mutual friends who came in. However this 
might have been with the letters of a poet to his 
fiancee, it is at least true that Mr. Fawcett's letters 
deserved an audience which they usually had. For 
myself, as I receded from youth, and from a boundless 
confidence that the reading of a noble poem, or of 
such spiritually inspiring sermons and addresses as 
those of Phillips Brooks would transform the reader's 
life by some instantaneous and inscrutable magic, 
I ceased to bestow poems of Browning, or sermons 
from the most spiritual of preachers on my friend, 
Mr. Fawcett, as tokens of regard. But all his boutades 
did not, as I have already said, obscure in the least, 
to those of us who knew him, his genuine kindness 
of heart and innumerable charming qualities. And 
it is possible to dwell with no little satisfaction on the 
happy nature of the surprises that must have awaited 
Edgar Fawcett in the next order of life to which he 
passed. 

The reunion, in London, with my friend of many 
Roman winters, Elise Emmons, who, from her home in 
Leamington, flitted any day to the London circle that 
so welcomed her, added its joy and interest to the 
brilliant and vital life of the British metropolis; and 
a visit to Miss Emmons in her home revealed the 
historic interest of all that Warwick region. Lady 
Warwick was then absent from the castle, but through 

[220] 




ELISE EMMONS 
Front a photograpli 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

her friend, Archdeacon Colley, offered its hospitalities; 
the house in which Walter Savage Landor was born 
was distinguished by a tablet in the village of Warwick; 
Stratford-on-Avon is in the near vicinity, as is Oxford, 
and one discovered that England offers excursions 
and interests second to that of no country on the 
continent. The delightful days at "Mount Vernon," 
as the Emmons estate is called, with the family group 
and their relays of friends always dropping in, passed 
all too swiftly. English country life is something 
distinctive, and affords an enjoyment that persists 
in memory. Once, during an afternoon at the Lyceum 
Club in London, when all the sojourners and their 
guests were engaged in the sacred rite of afternoon 
tea, Mabel Collins (the "M. C." of "Light on the 
Path"), Annie Halderman, and I slipped away into a 
quiet corner where conversation was possible, and 
took up the thread of many things which, for years 
before our meeting, we had discussed in letters. Her 
inestimable service to the cause of the higher spiritual 
enlightenment is one that can never be fitly estimated 
save by the Recording Angel, and her beauty of thought, 
as felt in her books, can only be equaled by the beauty 
of her personal life. 



[221] 



X 

THE FRIENDSHIPS OF WILLIAM ANGUS 
KNIGHT 

"Heart-affluence in discursive talk 

From household fountains never dry; 
The critic clearness of an eye 
That saw through all the Muses' walk; 

Seraphic intellect and force 

To seize and throw the doubts of man; 

Impassioned logic, which outran 
The hearer in its fiery course." 

Tennyson 

"What is so divine a thing as friendship, let us carry 
with what grandeur of spirit we may" 

Emerson 

THAT "a letter is a spiritual gift" is a truth that 
has been signally illustrated to me by a long 
series of letters from William Angus Knight, D.D., 
LL.D., Professor Emeritus in St. Andrews, where 
for forty years he held the Chair of Moral Philosophy. 
The genius for friendship ranks among the celestial 
gifts, and few persons have possessed more of this 
heaven-sent quality than Doctor Knight. He in- 
vested his Chair in the great Scottish University with 
brilliancy and distinction that will not soon fade 

[222] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

from the traditions of high thought and noble scholar- 
ship. His temperamental sympathies were of so wide 
a range that they included poetry and art and liter- 
ature in general as well as philosophy^ and ethics. 
He had a singular gift for making friends of the most 
dissimilar people; he affiliated with John Henry, Car- 
dinal Newman, and with Doctor James Martineau, 
the distinguished leader in liberal thought. His 
intimate circle included Browning, Tennyson, Matthew 
Arnold, Edward Dowden, Lady Ashburton, Principal 
Tulloch, Ruskin, Principal Shairp, Professor Jowett, 
Maurice, Gladstone, Archdeacon Wilberforce, the 
Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Davidson. Dean 
Stanley had also been one of his treasured friends. 
In his early life he saw a good deal of Carlyle; and with 
Browning he would walk across Kensington Gardens 
from the poet's house in Warwick Crescent, to call 
on Mrs. Procter (the widow of "Barry Cornwall"), 
who lived in the Albert Mansions. His visits to the 
States (where he once preached in Trinity Church, 
Boston, by the invitation of his friend, Phillips Brooks) 
brought him into the circle of Edward Everett Hale, 
Doctor Holmes, Mrs. Howe, Professor Shaler, John 
Fiske and Mrs. Fiske, and Thomas Wentworth Hig- 
ginson. Of Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton, who for 
more than a quarter of a century passed her summers 
in London and knew every one of note, Doctor Knight 
saw much in his own country. Lowell, too, he knew 
in England when the poet represented his country 
at the Court of Saint James. All these, and others 
of the rich Victorian age, were among his cherished 
associations. He also knew and prized the great 

[223] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

Hegelian, William Torrey Harris, whose genius for 
sympathetic companionships rivaled that of Professor 
Knight himself; and he numbered among the close 
friends of his later years, Sir Oliver Lodge, Frederic 
Myers, William Crookes, Sir William Barrett, William 
T. Stead, Canon Rawnsley, the Bishop of London 
(Doctor Ingram), William James, and William Wat- 
son, whose poetic future he had predicted from Mr. 
Watson's student days. Jane Barlow, whose social 
enjoyments were largely limited to the written word, 
he knew through correspondence. Professor Hiram 
Corson, conceded to be one of the finest of Browning 
interpreters, was a near friend and one whose critical 
literary work Doctor Knight held in highest esteem. 

The great work done by Doctor Knight in con- 
nection with philosophy, ethics, and poetry is of so 
unique an order as to be practically unrivaled. He 
was a splendid organizer of the work of others as well 
as indefatigable in his own. The list of his published 
works is a long one, and nearly fills an entire drawer 
of library catalogue. His "Studies in Philosophy 
and Literature" appeared in 1879; he had a great 
knowledge of all modern (as well as classic) poetry, 
and of the entire literature of religious devotions. 

A pleasant glimpse of Professor Knight in early 
youth is given in the biography of Colonel Higginson, 
in a quotation from his diary, under date of May 18, 
1878: 

... I went to a reception at Mr. Martineau's, 
chiefly his students and parishioners. ... It was 
rather stiffish, and the person I liked best was a very 
pleasing young Professor, William Knight, of St. An- 

[224] 




WILLIAM ANGUS KNIGHT, D.D., LL.D., D.C.L. 

From a photograph 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

drews, who, to my surprise, had my Epictetus and 
knew all about it. 

Professor Knight is perhaps better known by his 
works on Wordsworth than by any other of his many 
contributions to the finer culture of life. His "Eng- 
lish Lake District and Wordsworth" was published in 
1878. He had already organized the Wordsworth 
Society, and he gave years to researches into the 
poet's life. The national purchase of Dove Cottage 
was mainly due to the zeal and persistence of Mr. 
Knight. His own equipment of the cottage with books, 
with editions of Wordsworth and his manuscripts, 
and with some rare portraits, was princely in its 
extent and value. 

The failure of a publisher left a large part of Pro- 
fessor Knight's work entirely unremunerated. But 
in any lofty endeavor the reward lies even more in 
accomplishing the thing attempted than in any finan- 
cial return, and he apparently believed this, for he 
never faltered in any enterprise. 

The friendship between Professor Knight and Robert 
Browning must have begun soon after the death of 
Mrs. Browning (in 1861) when the poet, with his 
young son, returned to London. Browning was then 
forty-nine, and Mr. Knight twenty-five years of age. 
As the poet lived on for twenty-eight years, their 
friendly companionship covered a long period, and 
many circumstances brought them so closely together 
that any book appearing on the Brownings would 
immediately attract Mr. Knight's attention. Thus 
it was that he first wrote to me, on reading my book 

[225] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

entitled "The Brownings; their Life and Art," which 
had appeared in 1911, and had caught his watchful 
eye. This letter initiated the correspondence that 
was fairly inspirational to me in its revelations of the 
richness of his intellectual life. 

Doctor Knight relates that in first meeting Mr. 
Browning, whom he found "gracious in manner and 
radiant in spirit," what impressed him most in the 
poet was "a many-sided fullness of life; . . . the 
multitudinous ways in which he had touched and 
sounded the depths of human experience; the vast 
range of his interests, the eager, throbbing intensity 
of his nature." It was about that time (1877) when 
Professor Knight was called to the Chair of Moral 
Philosophy at St. Andrews, and soon afterward the 
students nominated Browning to be their Lord Rector. 
This occasioned several letters. Mr. Browning could 
not accept the office, even at Professor Knight's 
entreaty; but he became at once a member of the 
Wordsworth Society which was founded by the young 
professor, who was then engaged in editing Words- 
worth's works and has long since been known as the 
world's accredited authority on the poet. In fact, 
despite the impressive Chair in St. Andrews, it is as 
the friend of poets that William Angus Knight might 
best be known. He had such exquisite sympathy of 
temperament; such a power of generous and beautiful 
interpretation. An author with an unusually long list 
of books catalogued under his name; a frequent con- 
tributor to learned reviews; a minister, an educator, 
a lecturer, — he was of all things the ideal friend. 

Professor Knight induced his friend, Lord Coleridge, 
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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

to become the president of the Wordsworth Society 
in 1882; he was succeeded two years later by Lord 
Houghton. 

In a letter of Browning's to Doctor Knight, in 
1888, he says: 

... I am delighted to hear that you may establish 
yourself in London, illustrating Literature as happily 
as you have expounded Philosophy. It is certainly 
the right order of things, philosophy first, and poetry, 
as its highest outcome, afterward. 

From Florence, in the June of 1888, Professor 
Knight thus wrote to Browning: 

I have been six days in Florence, but they have 
been as years of experience. It is my first visit to 
this fairest of cities, and the hours have passed in one 
long apocalypse of beauty and glory. As it is to you 
and Mrs. Browning, along with Ruskin and George 
Eliot, that I owed most of my knowledge of Florence, 
I follow the instinct that impels me to write to you. 
I have risen each morning at four o'clock, and have 
been both to San Miniato and Fiesole at dawn. I 
have climbed Giotto's Tower, and Brunelleschi's 
dome at sunset. I have studied with wondering 
delight the frescoes in Santa Croce the Carmine, and 
Santa Maria Novella; and lingered in the Uffizi and 
the Pitti. The Duomo has fascinated me with the 
splendor of its architecture and its music. The 
Donatellos around San Michele, the Lucca della 
Robbias everywhere, the Bargello, and the Ghiberti 
Gates have revealed much; but the Giottos, the 
Botticellis, the Andrea del Sartos, these have mag- 
netized me. ... I stood a long time before Casa 
Guidi; today I went out to the English cemetery and 
laid a tall white lily on that tomb which will be a 
place of reverent pilgrimage for generations to come; 

[227] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

I placed a laurel bough over the grave of Walter 
Savage Landor. 

Doctor Knight records of Browning that he never 
knew any other author so completely indifferent to 
fame, and that in this respect he was a striking con- 
trast to Wordsworth and to Tennyson. In a conver- 
sation one day between the two, the talk turned on 
Immortality, and Browning said: "I don't need 
arguments; I know its truth by intuition which is 
superior to proof." He then took up "Aurora Leigh," 
and read aloud to Doctor Knight several passages. 

Looking through the treasured letters of my own 
from Doctor Knight (which are appropriately kept in 
the jewel-box that had been Mrs. Browning's, and 
which came to me by the kindness of Mrs. Barrett 
Browning) I find him saying, under date of Octo- 
ber 27, 1913: — 

... I have already said much of your book on 
the Brownings; and I have read and rejoiced in nearly 
all your books. But, as I have a book which I think 
of calling "Thoughts on Immortality" ready for the 
press, and as I have just finished a second reading of 
your "Life Transfigured" I cannot resist the impulse 
to thank you for that delightful utterance de profundis. 
... I know and love Italy, and I also know and 
love Boston which I have visited many times. I am 
glad that you quote from my two great living friends, 
Oliver Lodge and Alfred Russel Wallace, as well as 
from Hiram Corson, and Everett Hale, with Professor 
Shaler whom I valued very highly. You doubtless 
read Sir Oliver's Address to the British Association 
which is to me the most remarkable one ever delivered 
to that audience. We are surely on the verge of still 
more wonderful disclosures from the other realm. 

[228] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

We have known so many who are now across the 
frontier, as well as so many who have the "seeing 
eye" on this side of it, that I rejoice to think of you 
as a friend, though whom I have not yet met. 

Under date of April 27, 1914, Doctor Knight writes: 

I am glad that you are adding to your quite remark- 
able series of books one on the literary activities of 
London. 1 I fear I can send you only a bit of unfin- 
ished outline of my University holidays, my travels in 
Europe and America. My book called "Retrospects" 
is largely autobiographical, as is "Some Nineteenth- 
Century Scotsmen." As I have before written you, 
I have read with great delight your book on the Brown- 
ings. I am sending you a copy of the "Retrospects." 
I was reading last night a chapter in your "Life Trans- 
figured," and found it, as I always do, most restful. 

In a letter dated May 31st of the same spring, he 
says: 

How can I thank you for your very delightful letter? 
It has made me most happy in my new and ever- 
blessed friend; for you have become that at a simple 
bound of the soul. We have so many common friends. 
I wish Boston was nearer my home and I would be off 
to see you at once! . . . Mrs. Barrett Browning, in addi- 
tion to her gift of the bronze bust of the Poet, which 
Pen did of his father (and which I am going to leave 
to the University of St. Andrews), sent me the other 
day their family photographic album, of which I copy 
the inscription for you: 

"Photographic Album, which belonged to the Poet, 
Robert Browning, and was filled by him and his 
household; containing portraits of his friends, rela- 
tives, and himself; now presented to Professor Knight 
by his daughter-in-law, Fanny Browning. May, 1914." 

1 "The Lure of London." Boston, Little, Brown and Company. 1914. 

[229] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

That I shall leave to my daughter. I don't know that 
I cared for it more than for your letter. ... I knew 
Julia Ward Howe, Louise Chandler Moulton, Reverend 
Doctor E. Winchester Donald, and I have spoken, 
as well as worshipped in Trinity Church, Boston. I 
corresponded with Harriet Hosmer in Rome and I am 
glad to include Frank B. Sanborn among my friends. 
... I have a book nearly ready for the press. How 
I wish I could take Wordsworth's title, "Intimations 
of Immortality." But I cannot presume to do so. 
It is more likely to be called "Thoughts on Human 
Immortality." I am busy with some chapters of 
psychical research in connection with it, and Sir Oliver 
Lodge is revising them, as Alfred Russel Wallace 
(a very old friend of mine) used to do. How much 
your book, "The Spiritual Significance," delights my 
friends who have read it! I must see that and must 
read all your books. This note is too egoistic; but 
it is not meant to be egoistic, only informing! 

The letters run on: 

I find I can secure a copy of my "Scotsmen" (1903) 
and there is no one to whom I should so like to send 
it as to you, since it contains my personal recollections 
of some sixty Scotsmen of eminence. . . . How can I 
thank you for your letter and your precious gift of 
the three books with their joyous and friendly inscrip- 
tions? I never received kinder ones, although they 
are in excess of any merits of mine except what my 
dear Lilian may have discovered by some sweet telep- 
athy. Is it strange that one so old as I am should 
feel so young in spirit? I feel that I know your dear 
old Boston well. I have been there several times and 
I would be glad to go to it once more. I know so 
many of the people who are in your "Boston Days;" 
Julia Ward Howe, James Russell Lowell, Edward 
Everett Hale, E. Winchester Donald, Percival Lowell, 

[230] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

John Fiske and Mrs. Fiske, Frank B. Sanborn, W. T. 
Sedgwick, Professor Staler and Professor Barrett 
Wendell, Miss Scudder (at her college) , Thomas Went- 
worth Higginson, William T. Harris, etc., etc. They 
are a goodly company and there are many others. 
My dear friend, we have got very near to each other, 
have we not? I thank you for that remark of Oliver 
Wendell Holmes, — "I think we are all unconsciously 
conscious of each other's brain waves at times"; the 
fact is that words are a very poor sort of language 
compared with the direct telegraphy between souls. 
The mistake we make is to suppose that the soul is 
circumscribed and imprisoned in the body. . . . The 
post hour is at hand; but you will hear from me soon 
again. For ever and for aye, my new friend and 
precious friend, yours. . . . 0, I meant to say will 
you send me your photo and I will send you mine. . . . 

... I am reading your "Boston Days" again with 
the keenest delight. It has rare fascination. I am 
constantly sending telepathic messages for you to 
know and to respond to; and I often hear from Sir 
William Barrett, at Dublin, the last surviving member 
of that illustrious group of Founders of the Psychical 
Society. Can you speak to me through that blessed 
channel other than the recognized one of sense? You 
will find that I respond. To you I can say quite 
sacredly, "Benedicite, Benedicite!" . . . 

Did I send you my very youthful "Echoes from 
the Past," privately printed? I think not, and I 
send now. I think you may like them. ... I received 
yesterday your delightful letter of the 7th. Thank 
you for recalling Colonel Higginson's sentence about 
meeting me, at Martineau's house, in 1878, and much 
more for your kind words in appreciation of "Echoes 
from the Past." ... I want to tell you about this 
home (my latest and last), which I wish I might show 
you, in our English lakeland. For the renewal of 
youth in time of age, few experiences are better than 

[231] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

life in a mountain district in the English Lakes, for 
where does Nature reveal herself with richer prodigality 
or a more glorious radiance? It is marvellous how the 
lights and shadows of the fells are intensified by their 
sudden changes. . . . The house in which I now 
write (Greta Lodge) is next to Southey's old home, 
where he lived and wrote for nearly forty years. It is 
reached by a winding path from Keswick, near the 
picturesque two-arched bridge, bordered by beech- 
trees, chestnuts, and elms, with wild apple blossoms 
and rhododendrons intermixed. On either side are 
snowdrops, celandine, and crocuses of every color, fol- 
lowed, as the season advances, by daffodils. This 
winding path was trodden for many a year by the 
feet of Coleridge and Wordsworth, as well as by Southey 
all his life. Northward a group of mountains rear 
their heads, and southward is a picturesque valley, 
while the lake of Derwent Water is seen in many 
places through the trees. It is a scene unrivaled in 
England. . . . 

I am putting together some notes that I may call 
"Wordsworth Studies Old and New." ... If America 
and England lead the way [this was written under 
date of August 23, 1914] why should not the horrors 
of this international strife lead to a solemn pact 
amongst the nations of the world to turn their 
swords into pruning-hooks and their spears into plough- 
shares? . . . 

I received your most kind letter yesterday and at 
once turned to the poem of Whittier's, "My Soul and 
I." Do you know what I have thought of doing? 
It was to write to your President of the United States 
and appeal to him to break through the Monroe 
Doctrine and send his fleet across the seas to aid the 
down-trodden Belgium, and help us to help them! . . . 
Will not the Lord of Hosts Himself interfere? . . . 
I wish to urge you to read one of the most delightful 
books ever written, — Professor Edward Dowden's 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

"Fragments from Old Letters" (1869-1892), — just 
issued by J. M. Dent and Sons. It is full of insight 
and wisdom. . . . Here is a request for you; I want 
to issue a book, "Pro Patria," of verses relevant to 
the war, for the benefit of the Prince of Wales' Fund 
in aid of our soldiers and sailors. I shall bring in 
Wordsworth and Coleridge, Swinburne, Watts-Dunton, 
William Watson, Rudyard Kipling, Canon Rawnsley, 
and will you join the sympathetic group? I want an 
American coadjutor. War poems are not in your 
line; but I have no doubt you will be able to send me 
selections. I want poems of the character of my dear 
Wordsworth's "Happy Warrior." . . . 

You will not think me impatient if I write again 
about my "Pro Patria" war poems? I am including 
some of your Lowell's, and if you have had time to 
look for others will you send them to me? I saw one 
today in the Times, by an Indian Judge, Nizmat 
Jung, which I shall try to secure for my collection. 
When does your "Lure of London" appear, and who 
will publish it? . . . 

May I ask again if you have any war poems in your 
country like Mrs. Howe's "Battle Hymn," either 
recent, or old? I am getting on with the "Pro Patria," 
but I want more American poems. I deal with causes, 
characteristics, and consequences; but it is in this 
last section that I have most gaps. I cherish the hope 
that out of all these horrors there will emerge yet a 
nobler type of heroism, chivalry, nobility, and great- 
ness such as the world has not yet seen. ... I have 
not yet received the poems you so kindly promise to 
send, and while I know how overwhelmingly busy you 
are, my book is yet overdue. So there is haste. I 
am most anxious to have one of your own in it, and 
our Field Marshal, Earl Roberts, is also hopeful to 
see your work in it. . . . 

[233] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

This letter was dated November 6, 1914, and, very 
curiously, the only approach to a "war-poem" that 
I ever made was the following on the death of Lord 
Roberts under the most poetic and wonderful cir- 
cumstances, — a bit of verse that Doctor Knight was 
so kind as to approve, but which was too late for his 
collections. It is inserted here, not because of any 
supposed claim, but merely as a part of this story: 

Field Marshal Lord Roberts 

To the wail of "Flowers o' the Forest" from the 
pipers, the cortege moved slowly through double ranks 
of soldiers with arms reversed. General officers acted 
as pallbearers. Those following the casket included 
representatives of the family of Lord Roberts and 
of King Albert and President Poincare, the Prince of 
Wales, Prince Arthur of Connaught and Gen. French. 
As the coffin was removed to a motor ambulance 
for conveyance to Boulogne, French trumpeters across 
the square blew a fanfare and the guns of Lord Roberts's 
old regiment roared out a last farewell. A double 
rainbow gleamed on a mass of dark clouds and an 
aeroplane circling above, one of the aerial guards 
watching and protecting the procession, dipped in 
salute. 

Hero and Christian Soldier ! thou hast passed 
From out this time of conflict, carnage, strife, 
Into the peace of that diviner life, 

The goal of all humanity at last. 

Hero and Lord! No peerage holds thy fame 
In pride exclusive; nor could give to thee 
Honor or glory, greater than to be 

The Knight of England, thou of noble name. 
[ 234 ] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

The people loved thee; trusted in thy grace; 
Thy qualities that manhood made divine, — 
Thou mad'st each battle-field a sacred shrine, 

A promise of high progress, glorious space, — 

From which new dreams and visions burst aflame; 

The rose of dawns whose light was yet afar; 

Thy vision fixed upon the Morning Star, 
On all thy noble purposes made claim. 

Hero and Soldier-Saint! we know with thee 
"No work begun shall ever pause for death!" 
Thou whose last look and word of failing breath 

Were to thy comrades pledge and prophecy. 

Prophetic pledge that in the Wilderness 

Sees but the Promised Land that gleams afar! 
Sees England's destiny-illumined Star 

Spanned by the rainbow, e'en though darkest stress 

Broods o'er the land; thy spirit still shall guide 
Thy loved Britannia; lead thy troops once more 
To eager triumphs, — to that waveless shore 

Whose Gates of Life thy hand shall open wide! 

The next letter from Professor Knight bore the date 
of one day later only, the 7th, and began: 

Your delightful "Lure of London" reached me last 
night, after my letter to you had been posted. What 
a really wonderful book, so full of facts, skilfully 
adjusted. I took it to bed with me and only laid it 
down at 2.30, this morning. I like all that you say of 
London people, and houses, art-galleries, clubs, and 
science. And I know so many whom you charac- 
terise, — I think I noted only one mistake. My old 
(and great) friend, Lady Ashburton, lived at Kent 
House, Knightsbridge, not at Bath House, where I 

[ 235 ] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

have spent many a happy day as well as at her summer 
quarters of Melchit Court and Loch Luichart. If 
you have another edition I will send you some sug- 
gestions to improve a scarcely improvable book. 
Your portraits are sometimes idealised, Darwin's and 
one or two others; but your pictures of places are 
superb, and all you say of Oliver Lodge and Lord 
Lytton is excellent. I am sure that my dear friends, 
the Archbishop of Canterbury and Mrs. Davidson, will 
rejoice in what you have written of Lambeth, and of 
them both. What you say of the glorious Abbey is 
divinely true and admirably put. 

Have you any more war poems to send me? Any 
dealing with results that will bring good out of evil 
and the terrible tragedy Europe is now experiencing? 
You are so kind that I shrink from troubling you; 
but you must be, yourself, in my book, and you will 
honor me and Lord Roberts' wish, and the cause. . . 

Under date of November 12 there came: 

Your new-found friend is going to do a thing that 
he thinks he could do to no one else but to you. Is 
that strange? Anyway, he thinks it will give some 
joy to his friend, and he is sending her a letter he 
received from Stopford Brooke, whom she must know 
by repute, as he is a remarkable literary personality, 
and was once royal chaplain to Queen Victoria: one 
of the very great preachers of London, and, like Phillips 
Brooks in Boston, a great Wordsworthian, and a 
delightful man. At one time Doctor James Martineau 
used to worship in his church. He was (with my 
humble self) one of those who secured Dove Cottage 
[Wordsworth's old home] for the Nation, and is its 
senior trustee. Well, he wrote me the enclosed letter 
the other day, which is the most explicit bit of friendli- 
ness I have ever received and I shall not put even one 
of your dear letters to me before this. You will take 

[236] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

great care of it and return it to me soon. I thought 
of copying it for you, to guard against possible loss, 
but I could not write down such words about myself. 
But I would like my dear Lilian to read them now 
that we have become such friends. It is a noble 
revelation of his character little as I deserve it of mine. 
Many, many thanks for the five poems you have 
sent me. Yes, that of Bryant's is noble. . . . 

The letter from Stopford A. Brooke (which, by some 
prophetic instinct, I copied at the time) is as follows: 

The Four Winds, 
Ewhurst, Surrey, Sept. 30, 1914. 

My Dear Knight, — 

I am sorry to hear that your walking days are over, 
but you have many splendid walks to make in memory, 
— and you can still, — which is all I can do, — walk 
about your place and sit by the murmur of the Greta. 
Alas! I have no stream near me, but I often shut my 
eyes when the wind rushes, fancying that I hear the 
racing water under Steel Bridge tell me that it remem- 
bers me. 

I am glad you liked those selections from Words- 
worth. I wish I had sent it to you, but I suppose I 
thought you did not need more, and I remember the 
one you published which I keep today in my bookcase 
near my chair. 

Practically speaking, I have already resigned my 
(Mastership) Trusteeship. I cannot attend com- 
mittees, and I do not think I shall come to Grasmere 
again. If I do I shall come over to see you. I hunger 
to hear and to see running water. My cottage is on 
the edge of a high down in Surrey, and through the 
larch and beech which fringe the garden and the 
field, I see far below the shimmering wood, as silent 
and self-contained as if there were no war in all the 

[237] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

world. I have lived long and been happy. I have 
seen many things done for which I longed, and which 
I never thought to live to see. 

Good-bye; you have increased the pleasure and 
the good of the world, and when you walk by the 
Greta, its quiet song is full of your praise and love. 

Yours ever 

Stopford A. Brooke. 

Full of "explicit friendliness" as is this letter, it 
does not exceed, or even equal in enthusiasm of expres- 
sion, many tributes that have been paid to Doctor 
Knight; but his nature, so sensitive to affections 
and friendships, was one that, in Whittier's words, 

"So over-prized the work of others, 

And dwarfed thine own in self-distrust." 

Such natures are adapted to a finer ether than that 
which we breathe on earth, and only find their true 
environment when Love leads them to that land where 
all is love. For a great capacity for friendship is a 
gift which the angelic life alone will afford expansion 
and perfect expression. With its immeasurable power 
to multiply joys, it has almost as immeasurable capac- 
ities for suffering. What does the poet say? 

"Love's holy flame forever burneth; 

From heaven it came, to heaven returneth; 
Too oft on earth a troubled guest, 
At times approved, at times opprest, 

It soweth here with toil and care; 

But the harvest-time of Love is There!" 

The very joy of giving affection, friendship, love, is, 
like poetry, "its own exceeding great reward." How 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

perfectly a bit of verse by that exquisite lyrist, Sara 
Teasdale, expresses this truth! 

"What do I owe to you 

Who loved me deep and long? 
You never gave my spirit wings, 
Nor gave my heart a song. 

"ButO! to him I loved 
Who loved me not at all, 
I owe the little gate that led 
Through heaven's garden wall." 

Doctor Knight had this unsurpassed joy of giving 
his sympathies, his friendliness, which were as infinite 
as the air, and they were generously bestowed upon 
all who were fitted to receive so divine a gift. 

In some subsequent letter he wrote: 

. . . Today I received a print of Firenze (a place 
that you have glorified) and I write today to the 
artist, who is an old friend, Edmond New, of Oxford, 
to send one to you. When it reaches you it will take 
you, as it does me, to the familiar Florentine haunts. 
I well remember how I rejoiced over your book, — 
"The Florence of Landor." 

Dated December 1 came the following: 

How can I thank you sufficiently for these lines 
about Lord Roberts which I sent instantly to my 
publisher, asking him to get them in, if possible, 
though I fear the book is already in press. They are 
far the best I have seen in reference to that great 
"Soldier, Patriot, Statesman," as I call him in my 
brief Dedication. And now, tell me, did you ever 
come across a book of mine, "Memorials of Thomas 
Davidson?" If not I want to send you a copy. . . . 

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Four days later Professor Knight wrote: 

Thanks for your so kindly sending me a copy of 
your article on the St. Louis idealists. Another friend 
had also sent me the magazine, but that does not 
make your kindness the less. In that paper you refer 
to my friend, Thomas Davidson, "the wandering 
scholar." Now I must send you a copy of my Memo- 
rial of the wonderful man. Do you know the books 
of the Indian mystic, Rabindranath Tagore? I have 
been corresponding with him of late. I find him a 
most interesting man. 

The last letter for that year of 1914 was dated on 
December 27, from Greta Lodge, his beloved home in 
the "Lake Country." 

My Dearest Unseen Friend, — 

Did you ever come across a sentence from St. Augus- 
tine in your miscellaneous reading, " Aeterna, Aeterna 
Veritas, et vera Caritas, et cara Aeternitas, tu es Deus 
mens?" It is one of my long-chosen mottoes, which 
I had carved on my pulpit of my church in Dundee, 
to the partial bewilderment of the good people who 
used to gather there to hear me. And did you ever 
note the Augustinian style peculiarity that pervades 
the Confessions? I have a beautifully drawn and 
illuminated copy of the quotation from St. Augustine 
with which I began this letter, it is one of my treasures 
and has hung for forty years over my desk. It has 
had a blessed history to me, and so I am sending it 
to you, and I trust you will experience its sublime 
truth and ecstatic reality when I am no longer in the 
flesh. . . . 

Yesterday I received that delightful letter by Mr. 
F. B. Sanborn that you sent me. It is an admirable 
letter and I rejoice in it. . . . And may all the holy 
and blessed Power overshadow you and fold you in 

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the divine embrace. I have just received a sketch- 
book of that divine city we love so well that I ordered 
for you and am sending with this. As I turn the 
pages again I stand on the Ponte Vecchio; again I 
gaze from Bellosguardo ! Do you know Henry Holli- 
day's picture of the meeting of Dante and Beatrice 
on the Ponte Vecchio? 

[Curiously, a copy of this picture, a gift to me when 
in Europe, from Frank Walter Callender, had for some 
years hung above my mantel.] 

We have a copy of this in our drawing-room. . . . 
You know E. B. B. so well; but do you not feel that 
out of all her poetry the one supreme is the 43rd 
Sonnet (From the Portuguese) beginning; 

"How do I love thee? let me count the ways." 

Again, besides many autographically inscribed copies 
of his books, came to me that beautiful "Panorama of 
Florence," done in pen and ink, by an Oxford friend of 
his. On the flyleaf of his compilation of "Prayers 
Ancient and Modern," chosen, edited, and written by 
himself, he wrote: 

To my dear Friend of Friends, Lilian Whiting, 
this book of Prayer from the innermost heart of man 
to the Infinite and Everlasting Love, that slumbereth 
not nor sleepeth, is sent with ever grateful affection, 
for the year 1915, by William Angus Knight. 

The collection is a very rare one of the loftiest 
expressions of devotion. One prayer of his own I 
will quote here as revealing the beauty of his spirit : 

O Thou infinite and everlasting One, we look alone 
and steadfastly unto Thee, and wait for Thy revela- 
tions which are new to us every day. We put our 
whole trust in Thee, believing that although we fall, 

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we shall rise again, for we know that our Redeemer 
liveth, and that when He hath tried us we shall come 
forth as gold. When we are in sorrow, help us to 
say, Why are we cast down, or disquieted? still hope 
in God, for we shall yet praise Him, who is our joy, 
through Jesus Christ, our Lord. 

Dating February 1, 1915, Professor Knight wrote: 

.... I rejoice in your "Athens the Violet- 
Crowned." I have been there. I am going to send 
you some of the late King George's letters to me. 
And a more precious gift still, my most precious 
possession, I think, of its kind, — a pencil drawing 
by Dora Wordsworth of Heidelberg Castle taken by 
her when sailing up the Rhine with her father and 
S. T. Coleridge in 1829. The poet's son gave it to 
me after I had finished the life of his father. I want 
you to have it. . . . 

Doctor Knight had more than once written of the 
illness of his beloved wife; and when (in February 
of 1915) she passed on, he wrote: 

My God-given one is gone; she is dead, and her 
life is now hidden with Christ in God. I am desolate, 
but she is at rest. ... I can say no more. She was 
the light of my life, the joy of my heart, for more than 
half a century. I can say no more. ... I wonder if 
your great teacher, Phillips Brooks, could help me? . . . 

By the way, have you read "The Evolution of 
Immortality" by Mr. S. D. McConnell? I wish I 
could talk with you about it. Last night I read part 
of your "Life Transfigured" again, and part of your 
"Boston Days." I wish I could talk to you about 
that chapter on "The Unity of the Physical and 
Ethereal Worlds" in the "Life Transfigured." ^ Our 
books have brought us very near together. In "Life 

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Transfigured" as in "The Spiritual Significance," I 
feel the kinship of spirit. . . . Do you know Helen 
Keller? She is a dear friend of mine and if you do not 
know her I want to introduce you. 

I must get Stainton Moses's "Spirit Teachings." 
I have read much of him and many extracts from this 
book, but I must see what he says about Imperator 
now that you tell me of your and Dr. Hodgson's talk 
about St. Augustine. Your experience in the church 
of St. Augustine in Paris interests me. ... I rejoice 
that you care for dear Dora Wordsworth's drawing of 
Heidelberg. And I am glad you love the Twelfth 
service in my book of Prayers, and that you mark it 
with the name of St. Augustine. . . . Another day 
I am going to describe this home to you; you know 
Greta Lodge was Southey's home; I want you to see 
it, my library, its books, pictures, and the delightful 
views from our drawing-room; and in our dining 
room is a picture by Frank D. Millet. . . . 

Under date of March 31, 1915, Professor Knight 
writes that it is his daughter's birthday, and that the 
joyous event in it is that she receives a sonnet written 
to her as a birthday gift from Canon Rawnsley. 

I told him [continued the professor] of a sonnet 
that I once wrote to my daughter, beginning; 

"Be like thy mother, and thou wilt 
Be all my soul desires to see." 

I enclose you a copy of Rawnsley's, for I know you 
will love to see what he says of my Mary. I wonder 
if you are ever to know my beloved daughter? We 
must induce you to come to us and see this land of 
lakes and mountain glory. It will be my joy to take 
you both everywhere. 

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On Good Friday of that spring he writes of going 
up to London "to hear Mrs. Mosher lecture on Herve 
Riel and the Brittany district," and that he and 
Mrs. Mosher together are to visit the Browning 
settlement. This is a social settlement in Walworth 
(where Browning was born), the head of this work 
in the worst part of London, being Reverend Herbert 
Stead, a brother of the late William T. Stead. 

Again he writes : 

. . . Have I told you of my dear old friend, Miss 
Arnold, of Fox How, daughter of Dr. Arnold of Rugby? 
She is, in many ways, the most interesting lady we 
have in this region. . . . 

Such a light as is about me today! I lift up my 
soul in prayer to the Infinite. ... I take my friends 
with me. ... I am so glad that you know about dear 
Lady Augusta Stanley. I can never forget her. . . . 
This morning brought me your beautiful book, "From 
Dream to Vision of Life," with its two Emerson 
inscriptions. I need not tell you how I value it and 
with what interest I shall read it. The same mail 
brings me a finely sympathetic letter from Lord 
Cromer with his views on the war that I am enclosing 
for you to read, and then, if you please, return to me. 
It is so kind in you to help me in my selections for 
"Pro Patria," and the two poems you enclose are 
most fitting. Lord Derborne [notwithstanding the 
usual clearness of Doctor Knight's writing, this name is 
a little confused and may not be read aright] has sent 
me his son's lines. He (the Honorable Julian Evanfell) 
was struck down in the trenches, and when lying 
wounded wrote this poem, "Into Battle." It is as 
wonderful as is the sonnet on him in The Times, the 
day after it appeared. I am dedicating this volume 
to Mr. Asquith, our Premier. . . . Last night I read 
every poem in your "From Dreamland Sent." I 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

most like "On Easter Eve," "A Christmas Message," 
"The Mystery," "Gates of Eden," "Anchorage," and 
your memorial poem on Phillips Brooks. Alas! I 
have none of these in my Anthology that appeared 
too soon. I hope to make another collection, and you 
will let me have some of these, will you not? . . . 
Did I ever tell you of the series of papers I contributed 
to our London Academy, in 1906, under the title of 
Nugae Scriptum? They were as follows; "The Powers 
of Memory"; "On the Reading of Books"; Motor- 
Mania and its Possible Results"; "The Benefit of 
Church Services to Agnostics"; "How to Employ 
our Cathedrals Most Profitably"; "Compensation," 
and "Truth in Error." I have another series ready, 
but the Academy is in possible difficulty owing to war 
conditions and may suspend for a time. ... I am 
sending my "Days in Palestine" to the Religious 
Tract Society. I know Palestine so well, and have 
been there so often, that I think what I wrote about 
the Sacred Land is worth reading. ... I enter in 
spirit into your "book-lined rooms" at the Brunswick, 
and I hope yet to do so in reality. You will give me 
a sweet welcome, will you not? I commend you to 
that ever watchful One who slumbereth not nor 
sleepeth. ... I have just finished a brief notice of a 
book that would interest you, — "Lyrics of Old Lon- 
don," by Dorothy Margaret Stuart, illustrated by 
Mary Ellis. I shall send you a copy of the book. . . . 
Perhaps we shall see a regenerated Europe arise out 
of this time. ... I daily feel my loneliness, — the 
loss of my precious wife. 

Under date of November 1, still in 1915, there came: 

.... Your ten times delightful letter of your 
wonderful journey through Canada came this morning, 
and I have read it three times. What a glorious 
country! I wish, indeed, that I might meet Mr. Bell. 

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All you say of him reveals his lofty spirit. Of the two 
titles for your book on Canada about which you ask 
me, I should prefer "Canada the Spellbinder." When 
will you complete it? If you adopt the second title 
that you speak of, let it be " Canada, the Land of a 
New Civilisation"; not "the" new, but "a" new. 
It might even do to name it the home of a new civilisa- 
tion. You will surely have a map of your journeying, 
of that glorious wanderjahre, in the new book? This 
is essential. Today's Times contains my letter on 
"America and the Allies." I will send you a copy. 

Professor Knight's wish that he might meet George 
Turnbull Bell, one of the high administrative officials 
of the Grand Trunk System (the pioneer railroad of 
Canada), was reciprocated by Mr. Bell, a gentleman 
whose distinction of presence, charm of personality, 
and power of "inhabiting the same high sphere of 
thought," as Emerson phrases it, would have been 
deeply appreciated by the eminent Scotch professor. 
An added tie between the two might even have been 
in that Doctor Knight's home was in that poetic and 
picturesque Lake region of England with which Mr. 
Bell had many personal and ancestral associations. 
But the mutual pleasure of the meeting waits, like 
many another beautiful fulfilment, for the next phase 
of experience in this onward life. 

No friend of his entire life did Doctor Knight hold 
in deeper love and reverence than Doctor Martineau, 
whose writings had fascinated him in his early youth. 
He characterized the venerable preacher as one "who 
was so strong an intellectual and moral force in the 
philosophy and the religion of the nineteenth century, 
and whose writings powerfully influenced the English- 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

speaking race." It was Professor Knight who wrote 
the address to be presented to Doctor Martineau, 
on his eighty-third birthday (April 21, 1888), by 
Professor Estlin Carpenter and Benjamin Jowett. 

I have dwelt little on the philosophical, historical, 
and religious writings of Doctor Knight. They are 
accessible in every large library, and they are so nu- 
merous as almost to constitute a library of themselves. 
His claim to a niche in the Valhalla of letters is not 
inconsiderable; but most treasured of all, in his own 
estimation, was his work on Wordsworth, or the 
work which he contributed on Wordsworth, Coleridge, 
Tennyson, and Browning, a wealth of writing that is 
of permanent importance to literature. 

Doctor Knight was not a poet, but he had the 
poet's temperament. He was richly endowed with 
that exquisite spontaneousness, that generous recog- 
nition, that intuitive sympathy and penetration that 
discerns the spiritual meaning of poetry and the 
spiritual meaning of life as well. He gave always and 
lavishly of his best. He inspired the best in every 
friend who came within that magic circle. One may 
indeed regard the life of William Angus Knight as 
of that glorified order, — that richly-mingled quality 
of — 

"August anticipations, symbols, types 
Of a dim splendor ever on before 
In that eternal circle life pursues." 



[247] 



XI 

TEE GENIUS OF PERCIVAL LOWELL 

"An energy that searches through 

From Chaos to the dawning morrow; 
Into all our human plight, 
The soul's pilgrimage and flight." 

Emerson 

PERCIVAL LOWELL, LL.D., and fellow of 
nearly all the leading societies of learning in the 
world, with a trail of titles and degrees following his 
name, was far more than merely an eminent astronomer 
among astronomers. He was the great genius of his 
time in cosmic physics. His gift for original research 
in the interstellar universe was almost divination; 
his patient devotion to science was only equaled by 
the brilliancy of his powers, and he has left the legacy 
of a great contribution, not only of actual knowledge, 
but of speculative theories on the grandest scale to 
the science of astro-physics. His mind was of a very 
remarkable quality; he was singularly receptive to the 
loftiest order of speculation and thought; he had the 
winged imagination that penetrates into regions be- 
yond human knowledge, and constructs hypotheses 
to be tested by the onward progress of science. If it 
were alleged that "he feeds himself on visions," it 
could also be alleged that such visions as his "are the 

[248] 




PERCIVAL LOWELL, LL.D., D.Sc. 

From a photograph loaned by Mrs. Lowell 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

creators and the feeders of mankind." The name 
of Doctor Lowell is chiefly associated, m the mind of 
the public, with his theory that the lines on Mars are 
canals, the work of conscious intelligence; but his 
study of Mars is but one of the several directions in 
which he worked, and the supreme achievement of his 
life is in the establishing of an evolutionary chain 
linking the nebular hypothesis and evolution. 

Two or three trips that seemed to arrange them- 
selves as a part of the scenery of the Golden Road 
included Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona — land 
of mystery and magic — in the route to the Pacific 
Coast and the lovely region of Southern California. 
Among the Colorado memories there lingers a visit 
to Ex-Governor and Mrs. Alva Adams, at their home 
in Pueblo, under the majestic beauty of the Spanish 
peaks, above which clusters of stars blazed at night 
in fairly dazzling brilliancy. Twice the Governor 
of the State, Mr. Adams had signally contributed to 
the wonderful development of Colorado. 

Arizona, with its scenic marvels, is enriched with 
one of the important astronomical observatories of 
the world in that of the Lowell, at Flagstaff. To the 
legacy of facts and accepted evidence Doctor Lowell 
added that still richer legacy of speculative hypotheses 
that remain subject to the verdict of time. Not far 
from Flagstaff is the Grand Canyon. Until into the 
twentieth century it was only approached by driving 
from Flagstaff, a journey of seventy miles through 
the old Coconino forest, whose dim, green, twilight 
recalls the forest of Fontainebleau. About that date 
a railroad was built from Williams (on the Sante Fe 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

lines) to Bright Angel, on the rim of the Grand Canyon 
at the head of Bright Angel trail. The three-hours' 
ride between Williams and Bright Angel is one of 
transcendent beauty among the purple peaks of the 
San Francisco mountains. At the time of my own 
first visit there, in 1901, the railroad lacked ten miles 
of completion, which were bridged by stage. The 
Bright Angel "hotel" was a log cabin, very primitive, 
but very comfortable. A few years later was built 
the beautiful "El Tovar" hotel, where every luxury 
of private baths, and electric lights, and the up-to- 
date conveniences in general, abound. Since that 
initial visit I have made three sojourns at Bright 
Angel, one that included the month of August in 1906, 
a month in which I looked from my window on "a 
celestial inferno bathed in soft fires." 

The Grand Canyon is the carnival of the gods. It is 
the most wonderful spectacle of Nature in the entire 
world. It is not, as many suppose, a deep canyon 
between mountains; but it is a colossal "crack" 
in the earth more than two hundred miles in length, 
eighteen miles wide in the widest and thirteen miles 
in the narrowest place, and a mile deep! "If the 
Eiffel tower, which is a thousand feet in height, and 
the tallest structure in the world, were placed at the 
bottom of the Grand Canyon, five more towers of the 
same height could be placed on top of it before reach- 
ing the rim of the plateau." Twenty Yosemites might 
be thrown into it; a hundred Niagaras, yet making 
no impression! Now this gigantic canyon is no mere 
deep, dark chasm, but it is filled with what seems the 
most wonderful architecture, in the sandstone for- 

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mations that take on the forms of temples, monuments, 
a Chinese pagoda, with a three-terraced roof (that one 
cannot believe could be accidentally fashioned); and 
here are cathedrals, domes, and towers. Add to this 
a color scheme that is a very vision of the New Jeru- 
salem — a changing, throbbing sea of color, now all 
a deep rose-red, an emerald green, a rich purple, a 
dream of amber and gold and rose and palest blue, 
a nocturne in silvery gray, shot through with sapphire 
and ruby. From sunrise to sunset these colors change 
like a transformation scene. In a nearly four-weeks' 
stay, at one time, watching this marvelous spectacle 
by day and by night, I never saw it twice alike. One 
stands on the rim, speechless, breathless, as if trans- 
ported to another planet. One watched for the sacred 
fire to flame on Brunhilde's rock and for Siegfried to 
appear. 

To Arizona tourists the Lowell Observatory was an 
object of unusual interest in that its founder had 
surprised the scientific world with so remarkable an 
hypothesis regarding Mars. Nothing is so valuable 
to progress as that order of creative imagination that 
goes out, like a searchlight, into the infinite spaces 
and discovers that which it had thought might be 
there, or discovers that the trend of speculation is un- 
sustained by the actual conditions. It was this order of 
imagination with which Doctor Lowell was so richly 
endowed. With all the esteem in which he was held 
as a scholar, a scientist, a discoverer of new truth, he 
is yet too near the age; the perspective is not yet 
sufficient, for his contemporaries to realize his unusual 
equipment for scientific exploration. An astronomer, 

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— was he also a diviner of cosmic secrets? At all 
events his investigations have thrown added light 
upon the problem of Planetary Evolution. His per- 
sonal contribution was the establishment of the chain 
of sequences that link the two theories of the nebular 
hypothesis and evolution. This at one end: the 
Darwinian theory of life processes at the other, made 
an epoch in scientific progress. That this was exclu- 
sively due to Doctor Lowell no one would claim and 
he least of all; scientific advance is a river fed from 
a thousand sources, and scientists deprecate any 
especial emphasis on the person rather than on the 
achievement. "Not unto me, not unto me," is the 
universal feeling. But it was Doctor Lowell who 
coordinated this discovery and made its relations 
clear. Planetology, the science of the making, the 
growth, and the disintegration of worlds, was the 
theme that fascinated the attention of Doctor Lowell, 
and to which he devoted his time, his wealth, his 
resources in every way. Never did a more loyal 
devotee lay all his possessions on the altar of science. 
There is no question now remaining as to the existence 
of the lines on Mars. The problem is their interpre- 
tation. Doctor Lowell's brilliant and highly trained 
mind was of the signally constructive order. Schia- 
parelli did not wholly commit himself to the acceptance 
of the theory of his younger co-worker; but he declared 
it "the best working hypothesis yet devised" that 
Mars is inhabited; that its people are struggling 
with a planetary system of irrigation; that this system 
is under present aspects of extension. This is the 
theory which Doctor Lowell came to adopt as an 

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absolute conviction, attested by spectroscopic, pho- 
tographic, visual, and mathematical researches at 
Flagstaff. It was on May 31, 1894, that, through his 
own telescope at Flagstaff, he made his first observation 
of Mars; and during the succeeding twenty- two 
years of his work he had what he believed to be logical 
demonstration that the oases on this planet are great 
centers of population; that the strange and intricate 
lines are canals constructed by guiding intelligence 
for the purpose of hydraulic distribution, and that 
their existence is thus an unanswerable proof of con- 
scious, organic, and intelligent life on Mars. Within 
a period of fifteen years, four hundred new canals were 
discovered at the Lowell Observatory which, added 
to the one hundred and seventeen mapped by Schia- 
parelli, make a large number; and if this theory shall 
stand the test of time and future discoveries, it will 
absolutely attest the presence of conscious and in- 
telligent life on Mars. According to Doctor Lowell's 
convictions based on the observations made, some of 
these canals have been constructed since the time of 
the first researches. 

Presented in its completeness, with all its recognized 
facts marshaled in support, as the director of the 
observatory so luminously and impressively revealed 
them, this theory is the only one as yet evolved that 
will account for the facts and coordinate them into 
coherency. On no other known basis, at the present 
time, can the facts themselves, universally admitted 
to be true, be accounted for in their interrelation and 
completeness. At the same time, in science nothing 
is final. The apparent fact of to-day may be can- 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

celed or modified by the new fact discovered to- 
morrow. No scientist would more insist upon this 
truth than would Percival Lowell. It was his gift to 
discern many of the larger relations of the forces in 
the sidereal heavens. To meet conditions he would 
construct his working hypotheses and proceed to test 
them by the known and accepted facts. This was 
experimental, and he would probably have said that 
he only held to a given hypothesis until (or unless) a 
still larger group of facts or conditions tended to 
disprove it, when he would- construct another theory 
for testing these additional facts. His views on 
Mars had been subjected to all these tests during a 
long period of years; and up to the time of his death 
his continued excursions into the field had only served 
to support and substantiate his convictions, and he 
had encountered nothing to disprove them. As to 
what changes his belief might have undergone, had he 
lived longer (or what changes it may have undergone 
in his new and larger life and more extended vision) 
who may say? 

At one time when in Arizona, I applied to Doctor 
Lowell for permission to visit his Observatory at 
Flagstaff and received, on the train, a telegram from 
him cordially granting the privilege. A little cluster 
of houses had sprung up on the hill in proximity to 
the work in which the members of his staff and the 
employes were bestowed. His own house was a pic- 
turesque chalet, overlooking a landscape that one 
might well cross a continent to see. Beyond a plateau 
loomed up the vast heights of the San Francisco peaks 
with their aureole of colors, changing from hour to 

[254] 



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hour with the changes of the sun and atmosphere. 
It is fitting that he should have passed from earth in 
this unique and beautiful place, and that his tomb 
should be in the very shadow of the Observatory 
which is his most perfect memorial. 

The permanent fame of Percival Lowell still rests 
with the revelations of the future which will support, 
or cancel, his theories. If it shall be that Science, 
in her onward march, sustains the brilliant hypotheses 
that he held, his genius will be recognized as holding 
rank with the greatest men who have ever appeared to 
lead the world. 



IMS'] 



XII 

A SUMMER TOUR THROUGH CANADA 

"A wanderer in enchanted lands, 



"I bathe my spirit in blue skies 
And taste the springs of life!" 

Lampman 

"0 Land of the Dusky Balsam 

And the brilliant Maple Tree! " 

Duncan Campbell Scott 

ONE who is temperamentally predisposed to believe 
in miracles and to be surprised only when they 
do not happen, may even once in a way encounter 
events that go far to justify the faith that is in him; 
and it was an exhilarating experience of this order 
that prefigured itself when (for some inscrutable 
reason) the Grand Trunk System of Canada (which, 
in the summer of 1914, had invited Sir Arthur Conan 
and Lady Doyle to be its guests for a trip across that 
wonderful country whose shores are washed by three 
oceans) extended to me, in 1915, the same wonderful 
kindness. 

The Panama-Pacific Exposition presented itself 
as rather the objective point of interest in the year 

1256 2 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

of 1915, and the sunset shore allured all Eastern 
dwellers with its exposition of the arts and the re- 
sources of the civilized world to celebrate the com- 
pletion of the Panama Canal. Fascinating pictures of 
the splendor of the exposition in its scenic effects 
floated across the continent. The distinctively new 
note of the twentieth century sounded in the air. 
In pursuit of this nameless but potent charm that 
rose, like a mirage, I had gone, in the early spring, 
to Chicago, stopping there for a little time on my way 
to the Pacific shore. But the route from Boston to 
San Francisco was to prove a far more complicated, 
not to say a far more enchanting and surprising one, 
than I could have dreamed. For it led, in its mystic 
turnings, from Chicago to Washington, instead; again 
to Boston; and, in the summer, it turned to San 
Francisco by the Canadian route of the Grand Trunk 
System, through Montreal, with many delightful 
detours, stopping at Montreal, Ottawa, Toronto, 
Hotel Wawa on Lake-of-Bays, in northern Ontario, 
Algonquin Park, Cobalt, Miniaki, Winnipeg, Edmonton, 
Jasper Park, Prince Rupert; sailing thence, two days 
and two nights to Seattle; to Portland by rail, and 
sailing again from Flavell-Astoria for a voyage of 
thirty-eight hours to the Golden Gate. Surely a 
trip across the continent never transformed itself into 
a more undreamed-of route than this. Yet, like most 
incredible things, it all came about naturally. While 
in Chicago I suddenly made an engagement to write 
a book entitled "Women who Have Ennobled Life," 
and as writing books is incompatible with being "on 
the wing," I turned back to Washington and the 

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splendid resources of the Library of Congress in order 
to complete the work. The Exposition was to be 
continued through October; was there not an abun- 
dance of time to write the book and go later to San 
Francisco? So I fled to Washington. To look down 
on Washington in the spring from the marble terraces 
of the Capitol is to see a city embowered in emerald 
green, with groups of sculpture gleaming through, 
and that marvelous obelisk of the Washington monu- 
ment silhouetted against the glowing background of 
a sunset sky. Sometimes, so transparent is the glow, 
it seems made of alabaster. The May of that year, 
however, came in with intense heat; and I again 
fled, this time to Boston and its much-maligned east 
wind. The terror of a Boston March becomes the 
joy of the Boston midsummer, when the east wind 
brings the cool breath of the Atlantic over the city. 

There are many women of many lands who have 
(and do) "ennoble life"; but the nine that fell within 
the limits of this book were Julia Ward Howe, Elizabeth 
Barrett Browning, Mary Ashton Livermore, Louisa 
May Alcott, Margaret Fuller Ossoli, Mary Lyon, Har- 
riet Beecher Stowe, Frances Elizabeth Willard, and 
Harriet Goodhue Hosmer. 

The book was completed before August; it was 
kindly received, one reviewer saying, in part: 

It is a tribute marked by the admiration and affec- 
tion she holds for their memory and the literary skill 
with which she draws the veil from before their hearts 
and minds and reveals their contributions to the 
ennobling of life of women and men in every land. 
To say that Lilian Whiting is its author speaks volumes 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

for its worth, for in Miss Whiting's sketches one is 
brought into contact with a soul on fire with earnest 
purpose and astir with genuine ethical ferment. The 
author herself, being a noted personality, writes in a 
fascinating style about these leaders. 

One has only to give mental hospitality to the miracle 
region of life, and its portals swing wide as the gates 
to the Hills of Dream. The pipes of Pan are forever 
sounding in the air to him who can catch the vibration. 
One has only to be so irrational as to expect the Im- 
possible, — and find it ! That I should at last go to 
the Panama-Pacific exposition by way of the North 
Pole and Alaska, so to speak, had not dawned even 
upon the most irrational of miracle anticipators; 
nor was the trip quite as extraordinary as that, for 
I did not see the problematic Pole (less fortunate 
than "Doctor" Cook) and I was only within forty 
miles of Alaska; but the vast northwest of Canada 
was so remarkable that one began to look for the 
Yukon, the Klondyke, and the Polar Lights, even 
from the terraced heights of Prince Rupert. Robert 
Service is the Merlin who has enchanted all this 
region. 

"The lonely sunsets flame and die" 

in these awful solitudes, or over these infinite moun- 
tain peaks. Here was "The Call of the Wild"; and 
I could not have entered on the unmapped regions 
of the Himalayas with a more intense curiosity than 
that with which I fared forth after leaving Edmonton. 
Europe becomes familiar to all of us through pictures 
and photographs, and many of its haunts look as we 
had imagined they would; but the great northwest 

[259] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

of Canada, — no representations of this marvelous 
land had ever been within my range of vision. 

The journey initiated itself in the delightful com- 
panionship of Mr. H. R. Charlton, of Montreal, one 
of the officials of the Grand Trunk System, who, 
having left Mrs. Charlton in her favorite summer 
haunt of Old Orchard on the Maine coast, was return- 
ing that day to his city. The trip through the Green 
Mountain region lying between Boston and Montreal 
in the luxuriant beauty of the midsummer, disclosed 
beauty that one need not go out of New England to 
seek. Although living within twelve hours of the 
Dominion, I had never before crossed the border of 
this great country, which has a bewildering background 
of varied activities, from the earliest period of the 
sixteenth well into the twentieth century. What a 
panorama of explorers, pioneers, missionaries, traders, 
and adventurers; what a long line of remarkable 
leaders, men lofty of soul and compact of high pur- 
pose, does the history of Canada present. 

Prince Rupert, the wonderful young seaport of the 
Pacific, was really made in Boston. It was Messieurs 
Brett and Hall who waved the wand of magic to 
transform this wilderness into one of the most prom- 
ising seaports of the Pacific, laying out the entire 
town on paper before the railway was completed that 
made its construction possible. Charles Melville Hays, 
the president of the Grand Trunk who went down on 
the Titanic, was a man of vision; not infelicitously, 
indeed, was he called "the Cecil Rhodes of Canada"; 
and it was he who brought about the construction of 
the extension of his road that bridged the distance 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

from Winnipeg to Prince Rupert and made the latter 
port possible. The name of Prince Rupert has been 
as bewildering to many people as was Browning's 
"Sordello" to Mrs. Carlyle, who declared that after 
reading the poem three times she did not know whether 
Sordello was a man, a tree, or an island. At all events 
the anticipation of seeing this young city "hewn out 
of solid rock" at the termination of the journey by 
land invested it with keen anticipation. 

Montreal, the metropolis, and Ottawa, the capital 
of Canada, only three hours apart, are each more 
individually interesting than the stranger would dream. 
Montreal has the fascinating atmosphere of an old- 
world city; and McGill University gives it prestige 
in learning; the Parliament buildings, and the sump- 
tuous beauty of the Chateau Laurier, in Ottawa, 
enchant the eye. The summer resorts of Canada 
are as distinctive as they are numerous, and it is 
increasingly realized that a vacation in this wonderful 
air and splendor of scenery is the most potent of re- 
newals. The miracle- tour that fell upon me included 
many of these resorts. 

One enchanting place is the Hotel Wawa, poetic, 
bewitching, star-crowned Wawa! The region in North- 
ern Ontario is a fascinating fairyland. Is it the 
swan-boat of Lohengrin from which the traveler steps, 
in the brilliant sunshine of the late afternoon, upon 
the beach (one of the finest in Canada), finding him- 
self within two hundred yards of the hotel? Porters 
appear for the luggage while the wanderer lingers to 
gaze on the sunset over the blue lake, over a thousand 
lakes, indeed, studded with wooded islands, the color 

[261] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

scheme changing in the flitting, opalescent lights, 
the cloud-shadows drifting over the green of island 
trees and vegetation, with a fringe of pine and balsam 
along the shores offering refreshing shade for the saun- 
terer. The dancing pavilion is not far away, at one 
end of the long piazza, and the music of the orchestra 
floats out on the wonderful air. On a plot of verdant 
grass a group of white-robed children are dancing like 
a very fairy ring. The western sky, which The Wawa 
fronts, is all aglow with sunset splendors. 

Or, perchance, one arrives in the morning and finds 
that the pure transparent light plays all sorts of optical 
tricks with distances. Illusions beset one similar to 
those that delight the visitors to the Grand Canyon in 
Arizona. Not the least of the charm of The Wawa 
is the trip itself from Toronto, which is as pictur- 
esque as it is easy. Four or five hours of rail to Hunts- 
ville, then a steamer on the chain of lakes to Norway 
Point. The romantic journey would almost be worth 
taking, even if one remained but a single night. For 
the Beautiful Hours of life are not gone when they have 
passed; they linger in memory; they pervade the 
quality of life. One fascinating picture of the early 
evening hour at the Hotel Wawa thus lingers, — the 
hour when the powerful searchlight is turned over the 
landscape of lakes and forests and clustering islands; 
when the evening steamer is arriving, gay with flags 
and pennons, with snatches of music and light laughter 
borne on the evening air. For a moment the guest 
feels himself on the Swiss lakes where the lights of 
boats and inns respond to each other in the language 
of illuminated signals that they understand. 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

Algonquin Park, with its vast extent of nearly two 
and a half million acres, with the comfortable High- 
land Inn perched on a height overlooking lakes and 
woodlands, is a summer resort of alluring character. 
It has two log cabin camps, the Nominigan and Minne- 
sing, besides others of a more primitive order; those 
of the log cabin containing radiator heat, electric 
lights, bathrooms, and great fireplaces in which to 
burn the logs of the forest and around which to gather 
for witching tales. They are acceptable centers of 
civilization to find in a wilderness. 

In the vast woodlands of Algonquin one may see 
many couples strolling, not invariably side by side, 
for usually the trail provides no surplus space beyond 
that required for the single file. As they fare forth 
He calls to Her, "Come on"; or, occasionally, by way 
of special conversational brilliancy, he exclaims in a 
friendly tone: "Are you there?" They are perhaps 
making their way over a portage. The guide has the 
canoe, reversed, on his head. As they wind along 
intricate paths on the hillside, encountering impedi- 
menta of fallen logs and underbrush, he goes in ad- 
vance and she faithfully follows. There is all the 
charm of conversational entertainment when he looks 
sideways over his shoulder and exclaims, "Getting on 
all right?" She would be ashamed to confess that she 
was not. When their canoe trip was projected that 
morning she, who did not know a canoe from a con- 
stellation, was quite in raptures. As a tenderfoot, 
still unprofited by the proximity of the wilderness, 
she had descended from her bower equipped with a 
parasol for the sun, a handbag duly supplied with 

[263] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

pencil, notebook, violet water, and various feminine 
conveniences; a volume of her favorite poet in her 
hand that he might read aloud to her, and a novel 
for her own private delectation, in case he should be 
oblivious of poetic ecstasies and like a man prefer to 
smoke and — dream. But he, who has seen the 
wilderness before in the course of his august career 
and to whom canoeing is no mystery, regards her 
with unaccustomed austerity. "You can't take those 
things," he laconically observes; "upset the canoe." 
Poet and romancist, to say nothing of pink parasols 
and other decorative impedimenta, are relentlessly 
banished; and for the first time an intimation filters 
through her mind that there is some occult connection 
between equilibrium and successful canoeing. 

Cobalt, the great silver-mining camp and its wonders, 
and the luxury of a private car in which to live during 
the visit, — mining camp hotels not offering accom- 
modations for feminine wanderers — is in itself a 
marvel; and this great deposit of silver ore, discovered 
in 1903, yielded such phenomenal quantities of silver 
as to astonish the mining world. To descend into a 
mine to a 350-foot level was a thrilling experience, 
but one which left one feminine mind with little added 
enlightenment. 

Then on to lovely Minaki, a summer resort on a 
chain of lakes three hours east of Winnipeg. To step 
from the train to the steam launch in waiting, for a 
sail of twenty minutes to the charmingly-appointed 
Minaki hotel, with its piazzas and balconies and 
Alpine-like views; to go for sails on these lovely 
lakes, encircled with villas and cottages, for Minaki 

[264] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

is the summer residence place for Winnipeg people, 
as the North Shore is for the Bostonians, gave to my 
stay a strong flavor of Lucerne and Geneva. The 
trail of advanced civilization was over the entire 
country. Even the young man in deacon's orders 
(a student of the University of Toronto) who offici- 
ated at the religious service on Sunday (a service 
held, however, in the boathouse) quoted Phillips 
Brooks in his sermon. 

Then on to Winnipeg in the private car with one of 
the railway officials and his wife, and then I was 
ushered into the Fort Garry Hotel, whose magnificence 
of construction, its fourteen stories surmounted with 
a copper roof and with pinnacles that the sunshine 
turns to gold, made it a landmark for all the city. 
The structure is reminiscent of the period of Fran- 
cois I, and the interior luxury would surprise Francois, 
could he see it. I had vaguely conceived of Winnipeg 
as a fur-trading station somewhere in the vicinity of 
the North Pole; and to find myself in this brilliant and 
cosmopolitan center, with broad boulevards (to which 
only Commonwealth Avenue, in Boston, could be 
compared), with fine architecture, great business 
blocks, the splendid State House, Legislative Build- 
ings, the University of Manitoba, the cathedral, — 
was a surprise indeed. The culture of beauty is 
apparently a leading pursuit in Winnipeg. The park 
system and the perfect roads conduce to pleasure 
driving, which fairly remind one of Hyde Park on a 
midsummer afternoon. 

Edmonton, the capital of Alberta, was another 
surprise, and its situation, on the bold bluffs of the 

[265 ] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

Saskatchewan, is enchanting. The railway bridge 
spanning the river at the height of the hills is a marvel 
of construction, with its piers of hewn stone, with 
trusses of steel, and with the traffic bridges on either 
side at the level of the river, meeting elevators that 
lift heavy vehicles up and down from the heights to 
the valley. Edmonton is a single tax town, and 
would have been a paradise for Henry George. The 
Capitol, four stories in height, with classic portico 
and a dome surmounted by a tall lantern, is opposite 
the University of Alberta, and it is approached by 
terraced steps, their ornamental balustrades decorated 
with heavy bronze lamps that remind one of the 
magnificent Pont Alexandre III in Paris — contrast, 
indeed, to a region whose recent history is that of a 
settlement of hunters and trappers. The Canadian 
Women's Press Club has its headquarters in Edmonton, 
being the home of its president, Mrs. Arthur Murphy 
("Janey Canuck"), whose books have received high 
praise from some of the leading London reviews, and 
who is called the philosopher of gladness and good 
sense. Mrs. Murphy received the honor of being 
decorated by King George, the decoration entitling 
her to be known as a "Lady of Grace." The Reverend 
Arthur Murphy, her husband, was at one time the 
private chaplain to the Empress Frederic. 

Again boarding the train at Edmonton, in the late 
evening, I found myself, in the early morning hours, 
entering the foothills of the Canadian Rockies. This 
trip is still so new that the world of travel at large 
has not yet come to realize the marvel and the glory 
that it unfolds. For the initial surveying for this 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

transcontinental line began only in 1910, and the 
Grand Trunk Pacific, as this extension of the Grand 
Trunk System is known, was only open to travel in 
the spring of 1914. From a wilderness whose dense 
undergrowth and rocks and windswept forests would 
have seemed to preclude any highways through the 
trackless solitudes, to the travel in trains that are 
the latest word in comfort and beauty; with a dining- 
car always on; with an observation car and its balcony; 
with a writing section fitted up with desks and station- 
ery in abundance, and reading matter at hand, — all 
is a contrast that suggests the swiftness of the trans- 
formation. 

The approach to the Canadian Rockies is a wonder- 
ful spectacle. Afar on the horizon appear illuminated 
points, but whether terrestial or celestial, who can 
say? The atmosphere that pervades mountain soli- 
tudes eludes all analysis. Snow-capped peaks glow 
with molten gold in the rising sunshine. The fabled 
Vale of Cashmere is hardly more legendary to the 
general public than is this wonderful Yellowhead 
region. Guarded by the Boule Roche and the moun- 
tains is the entrance to the great government reserve, 
Jasper Park, comprising some four thousand four 
hundred square miles. To pause for a brief sojourn 
in the "tent city" was to enjoy a new experience of 
life; and so comfortably was it fitted up that one 
hardly missed hotel conveniences. The sleeping tents 
are as separate as rooms; they have board floors, 
good beds, the conveniences in every detail wholly 
adequate; with excellent food and a view that en- 
chants the eye. 

[267] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

Jasper Park is now enriched by an imperishable 
monument, one that will endure throughout the ages; 
one to which thousands of travelers, in the years 
to come, will make their pilgrimage as to a shrine. 
This is Mount Edith Cavell, the splendid peak 
over eleven thousand feet in height named by the 
Dominion in commemoration of the English nurse who 
was shot in Belgium, a noble martyr to her love and 
loyalty for her country. Mount Edith Cavell is in 
Jasper Park, fourteen and a half miles south of Jasper 
station, Alberta, on the Grand Trunk Pacific, and can 
be seen from the railway line. It is proposed to name 
the adjoining mountain (the shoulder of which is seen 
to the right, in the picture) Mount Sorrow. It has 
a gloomy aspect, being dark in color, with little or no 
snow or ice on this side, although many tiny streams 
trickle down its face, finding their way to the beautiful 
green waters of Lake Cavell. Recent examination of 
Mount Sorrow led to the discovery of a rock formation 
which bears a striking resemblance to the figure of a 
woman in the attitude of prayer. This figure, on the 
north side of Mount Sorrow, is about sixty feet in 
height and is of a light amber color that contrasts 
with the dark background. This marvel of nature 
will lend added interest to the pilgrimage from Jasper 
station to this impressive memorial of one of the most 
tragic events of the war. A picturesque trail leads 
from the railway station to both Mount Sorrow and 
Mount Edith Cavell. This lofty peak seemed pre- 
destined by nature for just such a memorial. It not 
only lends glory to the Dominion, but to the entire 
western continent; for not unaccompanied by faithful 

[268] 




MOUNT EDITH CAVELL, JASPER PARK, ALBERTA, CANADA 

From a photograph presented to the author by Mir. H. R. Charlton of the Grand 

Trunk System 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

hearts from Canada's great sister nation across the 
border, shall Canadians seek this mystic altar that lifts 
into immortal resplendence a woman's simple faithful- 
ness to duty. 

"Inspirer, prophet evermore! 

Pillar which God aloft hath set 

So that men might it not forget; 
It shall be life's ornament 
And mix itself with each event. 

By million changes skilled to tell 

What in the Eternal standeth well!" 

Between Jasper Park and Prince Rupert lies Mount 
Robson Park, at the foot of this highest peak of the 
Canadian Rockies, Mount Robson being 13,068 feet 
in height. To the north there is a trail up the Grand 
Fork River, skirting the shores of Lake Helena, and 
passing on to the Valley of a Thousand Falls, with the 
Empire Falls within view, and thus on to Berg Lake. 
Its stupendous beauty cannot be translated into words, 
but Robert Service interprets it in the line — 

"Have you seen God in His splendors? heard the text that Nature 
renders?" 

Such fantasies of combination, too, as meet the eye; 
castles, towers, fortresses, that glow like opal and 
ruby and topaz; walls of sheer glaciers rising in daz- 
zling whiteness like a spectral caravan; formless soli- 
tudes fit only for the abode of the gods! The spirit 
of the mountains is abroad on her revels; ice-peaks 
ten thousand feet in the upper air are her toys; the 
winds are her Aeolian harp; the Valley of a Thousand 
Falls is her theater for pastime. Neither the Swiss 

[269] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

Alps nor yet that mysterious chain of the Tyrol, 
haunted by fantastic drifting cloud-shapes, vocal 
with waterfalls, and invested with a mystic atmos- 
phere, can dim the colossal scale of splendor in the 
Mount Robson region. 

Prince Rupert is now a favorite place to embark 
for Alaska, as to journey there from Winnipeg and 
Edmonton is to save three days in time. 

But it was not to Alaska, but to Seattle that the 
fine steamer, the Prince George, was bound, with calls 
at Vancouver and Victoria. From Seattle to Port- 
land and Flavell-Astoria and then again a delightful 
sail to the Golden Gate. 

"You should approach the Panama-Pacific Expo- 
sition from the waterside," enthusiastic friends said. 
"The one perfect view is from the Golden Gate." 

Just how this desirable approach was to be effected, 
unless one came from Japan, or from Honolulu, was 
difficult to imagine; yet here it was a part of the 
Golden Road. 

There was music and dancing and song and laughter 
for the brief thirty-eight hours' voyage; and then the 
vision of splendor imaged itself in the air, for the two 
and a half miles waterfront of the Exposition grounds. 
The Andalusian charm of colonnades, arches, domes, 
glistening minarets fully justified all the ardor with 
which this approach to the Exposition had been de- 
scribed. Summer dreamed itself away in visions of love- 
liness, and the early autumn days fulfilled the dreams. 

Seen against the background of the blue Pacific, 
the Golden Gate all aglow under the radiant sunshine 
of the western skies, with its Spanish fascination of 

[270] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

the decor du scene, it was a spectacle to imprint itself 
on the imagination forever. Personally, the joy was 
increased by joining my Winnipeg friends, Mr. and 
Mrs. Robert C. W. Lett, where, domiciled in the 
same hotel, we made many excursions together. It 
was notable that in this world panorama, it was the 
Dominion that set the pace. Canada, an entrancing, 
garlanded figure, glowing with youth and enthusiasm, 
assumed her place as the very Winged Victory flying 
onward into a golden future. Her exhibits were of 
an order revealing the rich resources of the country. 

However interesting were the days in the exposition 
grounds, it was the spectacle of the grounds by night 
that accentuated the spell. The illuminations gave 
effects of color and light that invested the scene with 
an unearthly splendor. Few people were in the 
grounds. However warm the days, the nights were 
chill. Mr. and Mrs. Lett and I seemed sometimes 
to have all these wonderful courts almost wholly 
to ourselves. Now and then shadowy figures flitted 
into the Rembrandt shadows, but hardly a word was 
heard. The Tower of Jewels flamed with an Oriental 
brilliancy; rose-red windows, with hints of amber and 
pale green and pearly gray loomed up at the end of 
a vista; it was all as ethereal and fantastic as moon- 
light on the Alhambra. 

A pause at Toronto on the way from Chicago to 
Montreal well repays the tourist, — this city of edu- 
cation, culture, religion, progress. Her University 
had entered upon a period, just before the war, when 
its enrollment of students exceeded that of Oxford; 
the Public Library system is original and most effi- 

[271] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

ciently administered by its librarian, George H. Locke, 
who has created his own precedents. Toronto has 
harnessed Niagara into its service, and has thus 
unlimited power for the supplies of its population that 
already exceeds the half million mark. 

Out of this rich and suggestive journey a book 
entitled "Canada the Spellbinder" almost inevitably 
grew from the impressions that insisted on recording 
themselves. For the quality of life as well as the 
marvelous resources of the country fix the attention 
of the traveler in the Dominion. One notable feature 
of Canada is the recognition of Social Welfare as a 
distinctive feature of life. "We are here, not simply 
to make a living," said one who is a leader in this 
thought; "we are here to enjoy life; and I believe 
God means that every one shall partake of this rich- 
ness of bounty, with time for recreation, study, and 
for all intellectual and spiritual development." 

The great Northwest sends the call for a new order 
of human life; to the great realities of the spiritual 
life applied to every human relation. 

Canada is the pleasure-ground, the summer-land 
of the continent. It is the land of cloud minarets, 
of silver bays, and of shining rivers that leap down the 
precipice, or, swiftly flowing, mirror the blue sky. 
The Dominion is the land of miracle mornings all 
bloom and beauty; of rainbow crescents spanning the 
heavens; of silver-shod Auroras; of sunlight spray, of 
electrical air, of all keenest vitality and of balmy 
atmosphere; a summer-land with its potent spells 
and magic witchery, — this wonderful Canada, Land 
of the Maple-Leaf! 

[272] 



XIII 
TEE MOVING FINGER 

" The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ 
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit 

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line 
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it." 

Omar Khayyam 

LIFE, after all, is a matter of the rare moments 
that recur at intervals. These are like the 
flowering of the rose that condenses in its bloom and 
beauty and fragrance all the unnoted processes of 
many months. The jeweled moments of life gleam 
from a thread on which is also strung the uncounted 
days, a thousand ordinary hours, whose only purpose 
has been to lead to some exquisite culmination. A 
sunset, a poem, the glance of a friend; the clasp of 
a hand, a line in some book of which all the other 
pages say nothing to one; 

" — a sunset touch, 
A fancy from a flower-bell," — 

the unearthly brilliancy of a star seen from the upper 
deck while en voyage, — it is these that really constitute 
life. One is willing to give many days of plain prose 
for one hour of poetry; to take long wanderings 
through unattractive places that he may ascend and 

[273] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

gain one never-to-be-forgotten view from the height. 
The unending march of experiences is 

"The mere ring-metal ere the ring be made!" ' 

All the events of a season may fade from memory, 
and there will only shine out from it one immortal 
moment of blue sky and blue water and a sunset glow 
on the snows of Mt. Etna, turning all the summit to 
rose and the warm, pink mist of masses of flowering 
almonds, with their faint hint of perfume on the 
transparent air. Of several voyages between Naples 
and Genoa, there stands out to me one Sunday after- 
noon, when the water was like glass, and not a breath 
stirred as the steamer glided on, and the Captain 
took the unusual course through the narrow channel 
between Elba and the mainland, instead of outside 
that historic island. It is seldom that winds and waves 
make this passage through the channel possible to 
the large steamers. We had left Genoa in the early 
morning of a day all rose and sapphire; a day of 
such resplendent coloring as is hardly seen twice in a 
lifetime; but as we approached Elba the clouds 
gathered darkly over the island, almost enshrouding 
the low hills; the gloom became impenetrable; it 
was wrapped in threatening storm and tempest; 
heavy mists swept down, and one could not but wonder 
whether it was all a shadow of the past, — the gloom 
and sadness on the spirit of Napoleon in his exile 
thus becoming visible? At all events, when Elba was 
left behind, we came into the sunshine again. 

No one has ever more exquisitely and impressively 
portrayed the power of one of these rare moments 

[274] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

than has Mr. Aldrich in his wonderful little lyric 
entitled "Memory": 

"My mind lets go a thousand things, 
Like dates of wars and deaths of kings, 
And yet recalls the very hour — 
'Twas noon by yonder village tower, 
And on the last blue noon in May — 
The wind came briskly up this way, 
Crisping the brook beside the road; 
Then, pausing here, set down its load 
Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly 
Two petals from that wild-rose tree." 

Perhaps no lines in any language so perfectly mirror 
the indelible impression that may be made upon life 
by one fleeting moment, — by the fluttering of a 
rose petal; by a meteor darting through space; by 
a poet's line that records itself in memory forever. 

The enchantment to me of Roman winters came 
to be almost repeated by an occasional winter in 
Washington, where the early spring comes on with 
suggestions of a springtime in southern Italy. The 
Capital of the United States is, all in all, its most 
beautiful city. In both scenic and architectural 
features Washington ranks with the great capitals of 
the world. The picturesque highlands lying to the 
north offer possibilities that are successfully incor- 
porated into architectural schemes already famous. 
From all the residential region on the highlands the 
view over the city extends to the faint, dreamy blue 
of the Virginia hills in the distance and from certain 
points includes the stately and splendid Capitol, 
whose great dome is ablaze at night, when the legis- 

[ 275 ] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

lative body is in session. The myriad lights of the 
city glitter like those in the Place de la Concorde, 
in Paris, which always looks at night as if the constel- 
lations had fallen on it. From the terraces of the 
Capitol, looking westward, one finds his gaze focussed 
on that colossal obelisk, the Washington Monument, 
that stands forever silent and unmoved, like a spectral 
watcher. In the pure dawn of the morning it is daz- 
zling in whiteness; under the golden sunshine it takes 
on a thousand hues; in shadowy evenings it is wraith- 
like, unreal; under the moonlight it becomes a shaft 
of translucent alabaster. It is always pointing to 
something above; it is ceaselessly inspirational. Not 
overlaid with ornament like Trajan's Column in Rome, 
it stands unadorned, significant of thought and purpose. 
It is one of the unconscious inspirations of life in 
Washington, however unrecognized as the source of 
impassioned desires and winged aspirations. 

There is too little lingering on the western terraces 
of the Capitol. Are we too busy a people to have 
time for poetic moments? Yet it is not infrequently 
such moments that determine the trend of the most 
significant forces and which shape the destinies. People 
spring into waiting motor cars and are whirled down 
Pennsylvania Avenue to various engagements that 
crowd out the stars and sunsets and silences. If 
there were the " tea-on-the-terrace " that prevails 
in Parliamentary life in London, the poetic views 
from the western front of the Capitol would be more 
appreciated. 

The Library of Congress is one of the most notable 
features, not only of Washington, but of the United 

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States. Cosmopolitan travelers, who have visited 
all the monumental beauty of the world, unite in the 
affirmation that no other single architectural structure 
on earth surpasses this library in splendor. The 
stately magnificence of these marble halls with their 
pillars and intertwining arches; the grand marble 
stairways that allure the eye, tempt one to dispense 
with elevator service and ascend them as one would 
the Scala Santa in the Palazzo Vaticano; the bal- 
conies from which one gazes down on statues, groups 
of sculpture, and pictorial art; the richness of color 
in the mural paintings; the perfection of the library 
facilities; all these unite to render the Library of 
Congress a national feature of stupendous importance. 
Still, it is not alone to architect and artists that this 
spell of enchantment, this welcome to untold treasures 
of literature, is due. Its presiding genius is its Li- 
brarian, Doctor Herbert Putnam, whose administration 
exalts this library to a notable rank among the great 
libraries of the world. Neither the Bibliotheque of 
Paris, nor yet the British Museum of London, each 
with a larger numerical collection of books and with 
many rare manuscripts and works hardly to be dupli- 
cated, — neither of these furnish any such facilities 
for the reader and student as does the Congressional 
Library under the conduct of Doctor Putnam and the 
efficient staff he has called around him. 

Washington is the city of notable personalities, 
among whom stands out John Hay who accepted the 
office of Secretary of State under the McKinley and 
Roosevelt administrations. Secretary Hay was a 
man of such winning manner, such entrancing powers 

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of conversation, as to make memorable any meeting 
with him. His versatility is realized when his vivid 
and vital story, "The Bread- Winners," is com- 
pared with his other literary work — poems, criticism, 
and the "Castilian Days" that grew out of his diplo- 
matic sojourn in Spain. That he was the author of 
"The Bread- Winners " is now established, although 
at the time and for many years after it was the best- 
kept literary secret of the age. This story ran as an 
anonymous serial in the Century Magazine for 1884, 
and was published in book form in the autumn of that 
year. In common with a multitude of its readers, 
I was intensely interested, not only in the story, but 
in the problem of its authorship, and in addition to 
the usual review, I had also written of it editorially 
and in press letters. When it was published in book 
form, a copy was sent to me with my name and the 
"Compliments of the Author" on the flyleaf, and 
accompanied by the following letter: 

Office of the Century, 
New York, December 2, 1884. 

Dear Miss Whiting; — 

I have requested my publisher to send you a copy 
of "The Bread-Winners." As I shall never claim the 
work, I can only take this method of giving you my 
cordial thanks for the article which I understand you 
wrote upon it last summer. It has since received 
much abuse and some praise, but no one, whether 
friend or enemy, has ever appeared to see, as you saw, 
the purpose and spirit with which it was written. I 
thank you more cordially than I can tell you. 

Yours Faithfully, 

Author of "The Bread-Winners." 

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Since then I have attached this letter to a flyleaf of 
the autographed copy and presented it to the Public 
Library of Boston, as a literary curiosity, and it is now 
preserved in the Barton-Ticknor (non-circulating) 
department. 

After the death of Mr. Hay, in the summer of 1905, 
the controversy regarding the authorship of this 
story was revived in the New York Times, and a 
lithographed copy of this letter appeared in that jour- 
nal. The letter was not, of course, in the hand- 
writing of Mr. Hay. For with chirography so well 
known and so easily identified as his, the secret of 
authorship would have been betrayed at once. 

Washington enjoyed the most brilliant social season 
of its entire history, up to that time, in the winter 
opening with 1902, which, fortunately, was my initial 
season. President Roosevelt became a notable figure 
throughout the world. His personality, — vehement, 
mercurial, brilliant, — focussed attention. The hos- 
pitalities of the White House were as constant and as 
liberal as they were charming; and if the Roosevelt 
administrations offered something of the resplendence 
of a foreign court, there was no special reason why 
some degree of ceremonial elegances should not justly 
be observed. 

David Jayne Hill, LL.D., was then the first Assist- 
ant Secretary of State, and, owing to the ill health of 
Mr. Hay, he was largely the Acting Secretary. Doctor 
Hill was also the president of the Literary Club of 
Washington, which did not, for a wonder, belie its 
name, and which thus holds a distinctive place among 
many associations that assemble in the name of litera- 

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ture. The club included a membership of many of 
the most prominent men, including Secretary Hay 
and General John W. Foster, the courtly diplomat 
and statesman. Another prominent member was 
Miss Eliza Ruhamah Scidmore, who continues to 
distinguish herself in letters. The Hills were domiciled 
in K Street, and Mrs. Hill, a linguist as well as one 
of the most accomplished of hostesses, was able to 
receive her guests of the corps diplomatique each in 
his own language, which added to her social prestige. 
Mrs. Hill's weekly receptions were among the most 
engaging social events of the season, for one met all 
the more interesting people and the notable visitors 
in Washington at her house, one special habitue being 
Doctor Simon Newcomb, so distinguished in mathe- 
matical astronomy. 

It was soon after this season in Washington that, 
on account of some special literary work in which 
Doctor Hill was engaged, he sought a diplomatic 
post abroad where he could have the advantage of 
access to European libraries. President Roosevelt 
gave him the portfolio to Switzerland, where both 
Doctor and Mrs. Hill wished to go on account of the 
importance of the Library at Geneva, which is very 
rich in historical documents. For Doctor Hill was 
about entering on his monumental work, "A History 
of Diplomacy," for which work he combined peculiarly 
exceptional capability, with his philosophic grasp of 
problems of state, his profound scholarship, his keen 
intellectual insight, and his gift as a writer. Later, 
from Switzerland, Doctor Hill was by his own wish 
transferred to The Hague, and in 1908 he was made 

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the American Ambassador to Germany, succeeding 
Honorable Charlemagne Tower. Mr. Tower had so 
long held important diplomatic posts abroad that 
both he and Mrs. Tower wished to return to their own 
country. Preceding his ambassadorship to Germany, 
he had been in Vienna, and assisted by the social grace 
that so signally characterizes Mrs. Tower, they had 
made memorable both these embassies. By some 
social charm of her own, Mrs. Tower will always hold 
recognized place among the American ambassadresses. 
She carried into court and diplomatic society all those 
sincere and lovely qualities that invest her private 
and personal friendships with such enjoyment. With 
all that confers distinguished recognition, Mrs. Tower 
has remained the same unaffected and winning woman, 
whose deep under-current of spiritual life reflects itself 
in every phase of social contact. 

Doctor Hill added the distinction of another scholar 
to the prestige with which a former predecessor of 
his own and of Mr. Tower's, Doctor Andrew Dickson 
White, the first president of Cornell University, had 
also invested the German mission. 

The great charm of Washington society lies in more 
or less cosmopolitan interest in conversational inter- 
course that differentiates it from the mere "smart 
set"; it is "smart" enough; fashion and luxury are 
by no means non-evidential, but it is largely the society 
of people who stand for something more. At a recep- 
tion one meets a Japanese countess whose witchery 
makes the land of the cherry blossom more vivid, or 
the Minister from Siam, or the wife of the Chinese 
Ambassador who is not without interesting resources, 

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or, again, a savant from the Smithsonian, or the Direc- 
tor of the Naval Observatory. Social life presents a 
varied panorama. 

As Boston had one remarkable voice sounding in 
the city in the days of Phillips Brooks, albeit there 
were many others of beneficent influence, so Washing- 
ton has had for many years one clergyman who, 
though companioned by many others of note, is yet 
regarded as holding a very distinctive place, — Rever- 
end Doctor Ulysses G. B. Pierce, the pastor of All 
Souls Church. The preaching of Doctor Pierce, in 
its fervent and intense spirituality, its breadth of 
religious philosophy, its exaltation and power to 
deliver what seems the personal message of the Divine 
Grace, is so remarkable that it is little wonder that a 
good majority of the statesmen and officials and 
eminent men of the time are attendants at this church, 
whose portals swing equally wide with winning wel- 
come and with message for the greatest or the humblest. 

In these Washington winters that have been occa- 
sional interludes since the initial season of 1902, I 
again found the beloved and revered friend, Doctor 
William T. Harris, who remained the National Super- 
intendent of Education until his death, within the 
second decade of this century. Many were the de- 
lightful hours spent at his Washington home, where 
Mrs. Harris and Edith, his daughter (whose impas- 
sioned love of the drama contrasted with the serene 
philosophy of her father) maintained the most hos- 
pitable of atmospheres. In one of these last conver- 
sations with Doctor Harris he mentioned his absorbing 
pleasure in reading Scott's novels, a recreation of his 

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earliest youth which had persisted throughout his 
life. "There is seldom a day," he said, "when I do 
not read more or less from some novel of Scott." 
One note of conviction held a controlling place in the 
life of Doctor Harris, — that of the art of living well 
with others. It was signally illustrated in his own 
harmonious relations with all with whom his life came 
in contact. 

Looking backward over all the latter part of the 
life of William Torrey Harris, is it possible to discern 
in what springs of character lay his incomparable 
charm? His profound scholarship and wide culture 
were matched by a modesty and simplicity not less 
remarkable; but a marvelous sincerity of helpfulness, 
the kindling desire to advance and benefit every one 
who appealed to him, were carried to a high degree. 

"There is no record left on earth 
Save in tablets of the heart 
Of the grace that on him shone." 

That art of living well with others was one that 
in his wide and universal application comprehended 
a great part of the infinite problem of life. Very 
illy do any poor efforts of my own testify to the pro- 
found and unforgettable impression that his person- 
ality made upon me, or to my gratitude for the privilege 
of coming under his influence. The resources of 
Washington were greatly enjoyed by him; and here, 
as elsewhere, his influence was so appreciated that 
a multitude of far abler testimonies than mine follow 
this exalted and beautiful spirit to the Paradisa Gloria. 
That beautiful serenity and exaltation of spirit 
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that enriched all who came into contact with William 
T. Harris, is recognized in a man who is one of the 
living forces of to-day, Reverend Doctor John Hey- 
ward McKenzie, the rector of St. Mark's, in Howe, 
Indiana, and also the rector of the Church School 
in that place. The influence over the large number 
of young men who are students in this school is one 
that has radiated widely beyond student ranks, and 
entered as a factor into many of the learned socie- 
ties with which Doctor McKenzie is affiliated. In a 
letter referring to a memorial service for Phillips 
Brooks (in Trinity Church, Boston, on the twenty- 
fifth anniversary of his death) Doctor McKenzie 
writes : 

How beautiful must have been the service for 
Phillips Brooks, and how sweet and beneficent his 
influence continues, not only in the lives of Bostonians, 
but in those of other devoted friends far and near ! . . . 

I so much want you to see this work (referring to the 
Church School) and I hope to have you continue to 
remember it in your devotions. . . . Having seen 
the place and realized our ideals, I am sure you would 
value it the more. It is not so much what we have 
accomplished here, but what we are trying to do for 
the spiritual life. ... I am doing everything I can 
for the work God has given me to do here. . . . 

Again Doctor McKenzie writes: 

.... In this readjustment of the Christian Religion 
to modern conditions and changes, the "Communion 
of Saints" must be broadened to include not only the 
scientific demonstrations which we are having but 
the spiritual revelations of immortal souls. What a 
comfort this will be to future generations! . . . The 

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end is near, but probably not as we would want it; 
but God rules, and we shall eventually know the truth. 
I am especially glad that Mr. Kidner is so unusually 
well this Lent, and I often think of his work. It 
means so much to those who love him so dearly. 
We are having a beautiful Lent in the School. There 
is a seriousness about it that is unusual for boys. 
Yesterday we put into Chapel our Service Flag, with 
two hundred and four stars upon it. Others will be 
added soon, bringing it up to at least two hundred 
and twenty. There is one gold star for a boy who 
was killed in action. A number have been wounded. 
This new atmosphere in boy life, in bringing it in 
touch with the world's ordeal, is bringing the new 
generation to serious expression in their lives of the 
higher things of God. . . . 

Reverend Reuben Kidner has been associated with 
Trinity Church for more than thirty years, an asso- 
ciation that happily continues to-day in all its vitality 
and power for good. Mr. Kidner has been the first 
assistant minister of the three successive rectors, — 
Phillips Brooks, E. Winchester Donald, and Alexander 
Mann. When John Heyward McKenzie was a student 
in Harvard he came under the influence of Mr. Kidner, 
and into the devotion of friendship that his loveliness 
of character and life has always inspired. My own 
unmeasured debt of gratitude to Mr. Kidner for 
spiritual guidance and aid, and for illuminated hours 
of companionship in the discussion of our favorite 
poets and of literature in general, is something quite 
beyond adequate chronicle in these pages. 

Again, in the winter of 1918, Doctor McKenzie 
writes: 

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.... Doubtless Doctor Hyslop is not accurately 
quoted. I am sure he is doing much good. . . . 
The prayer you sent is helpful. It is hard to realize 
why Satan has been permitted to marshal his forces, 
but the end is near, and when it all clears up we shall 
see the hand of God, and the world will be the better 
for the terrible sacrifices that have been made. 

So these expressions in the letters of Doctor McKen- 
zie run on, reflecting his trust in the divine leading. 
To Washington he occasionally came, and truly could 
it be said that — 

"All hearts grew warmer in his presence 
As one, who, seeking not his own 
Gave freely for the love of giving, 

Nor reaped for self the harvest sown." 

General John W. Foster, the eminent diplomat, 
whose beautiful home in Connecticut Avenue has 
long been a center of the finest cosmopolitan life, 
has said of Washington that "one of its chief attrac- 
tions is found in the number of men of eminence who 
make it their home on their retirement from active 
life." No home more than his own contributed to 
this result. When, after he was eighty years of age, 
Edward Everett Hale became the Chaplain of the 
Senate, a close friendship, with an almost daily inter- 
change of visits, sprang up between the distinguished 
divine, author, and friend of humanity, and General 
Foster. The two men found common ground in that 
they were both endeavoring to create a strong public 
sentiment for national arbitration. Professor Alex- 
ander Graham Bell, the inventor of the telephone; 
Doctor Herbert Putnam, Librarian of Congress (and 

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the presiding member over the "Round Table" at 
its informal daily luncheon, where gather the literary, 
scientific, and other eminent men on Capitol Hill); 
Lord Pauncefote; the Chinese Viceroy, Li Hung 
Chang (who was the guest of the Fosters during his 
stay in Washington), were all among the social asso- 
ciations of the home of General and Mrs. Foster; 
and the present Secretary of State, and Mrs. Lan- 
sing, make their home under the paternal roof. Gen- 
eral Foster's friendship with John Hay was one of 
the notable ones in the life of each. 

Among other homes of social charm was that of 
General and Mrs. Hoxie, the "Vinnie Ream" of art 
and romance. At sixty she was almost as much 
the child of Poetry and Song as she had been at six- 
teen, when Lincoln took her two hands in his, and said, 
in response to her girlish petition that he would "sit" 
for her, "Little girl, what do you want to make my 
bust for?" With his characteristic sweetness of nature 
he consented to let the "little girl" have her way, 
and the result is seen in the rotunda of the Capitol. 
Vinnie Ream was the child of Genius. She was the 
most captivating creature imaginable. She would 
sit by her harp and improvise accompaniments to 
lovely poems, singing them in a haunting voice that 
still echoes to me through the years. I believe about 
the second time I saw her she asked me to call her 
"Vinnie," and indeed that seemed to belong to her 
rather than the formal "Mrs. Hoxie," and it was as 
easy to think of her by her pretty girlish name as if 
she were still in her teens. She was the embodied 
spirit of youth, joy, loveliness, and artistic abandon. 

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Among the women of affairs who always retained a 
deep interest in Washington life and its constant 
changes and new developments, was Mrs. Mary A. 
Livermore, who had served her country as the head 
of the Sanitary Commission in the Civil War, and who 
had more than once been called by President Lincoln 
to confer with him. A series of letters from this 
great woman that extended over the closing years 
of her life (her death occurring in June of 1905) reveals 
so much of the trend and quality of her inner life, — 
of the qualities that made her the greatest and most 
influential lecturer of any woman of America, that 
some extracts from them will be given. Mrs. Liver- 
more was an omnivorous reader, and her comments 
upon books and the many notable people she had 
known are full of interest. Referring to Horace P. 
Scudder's biography of Lowell, Mrs. Livermore writes 
me, under date of December 31, 1901: 

Your beautiful New Year's gift of books came to 
me last night. I was thinking of going to bed when 
the expressman came and that was postponed for 
hours as I looked through the story of Lowell's life. 
Thank you most heartily for your affectionate remem- 
brance. You are a sort of breath of life to me. I 
don't know what would happen to me if I lived near 
you, where I could see you every day. I tread on air 
after reading one of your letters, and whether "in the 
body or out" I cannot tell. But I am sure I should 
be "out of the body" altogether, you have such a 
stimulating effect on me, if I were with you daily. 
It is remarkable that we have never heard much of 
the Lowell "visions," until now, isn't it? It does not 
discredit a man now if he sees visions, or possesses a 
visionary faculty which might almost be called "another 

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sense." The statement is made as if it had never 
been derided, but had always been regarded as a 
special endowment. I used to hear, in my young 
days, from Harvard boys about Lowell's wonderful 
love for an almost ethereal girl, who was gifted and 
spirituelle to a degree that made one fear she might 
vanish into thin air. The whole story of the love and 
death of Maria White Lowell is full of pathos and 
spiritual beauty. They both knew from the begin- 
ning, before and after their marriage, that the shadow 
of early death was upon her. She was sublimated by 
this consciousness, and reflected upon him the nobility 
of the life beyond which became her life, before she 
passed wholly into it. Lowell never seemed to me 
to be as excellent after her death. Before I could 
understand it, I realized the change that had come 
over him. . . . 

What an explanation to this life is that beyond! 
That one gives to this its meaning! As you say, the 
continuity makes this a spiritual world. . . . The 
culture of the spirit is far more truly culture than 
the knowledge and polish of literature that does not 
recognize the divine world. I am measuring all in 
which I am interested by its relation to the spiritual 
and permanent, and value it accordingly. So much 
that we care for here is transient, and will end when 
we pass on, that the world about me, at times, seems 
shadowy and unreal. The real world, just out of 
sight, is permanent. There may come a time when 
we shall outgrow this next stage; when its experiences 
will have done their work upon us, and we shall pass 
forward, with others with whom we are associated 
into some other sphere, and so on in endless progress. 
How little we know! How we are baffled in our 
questionings, and how we are continually getting 
glimpses or suggestions of heights far beyond us, as 
astronomers with their high-power telescopes get 
hints of a universe they can never reveal. . . . How 

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people are hungering and thirsting for a certainty of 
knowledge about the other life ! . . . 

When a little untoned, somewhat shadowed by- 
doubt and let down to a minor key, I take up one of 
your books (which all have their abiding place on my 
desk) and open any one of them, anywhere, and read. 
Off I go, up and off and away, and soon the shadows 
leave; I breathe a diviner atmosphere. 

Under the date of December 15, 1902, Mrs. Liver- 
more writes: 

Your "Boston Days" is on my study table. What 
a book! A panorama of Boston's best and noblest as 
they have played their roles on the stage of the last 
century, or are still lingering and waiting. 
"The saints on earth and those above, 
But one communion make." 

What a book! It has seemed to me in reading as 
if I had been invited to enter a room where were some 
people whom I knew and loved. I crossed the thresh- 
old, and lo! not only were my beloved of today all 
there, in their most resplendent garments, but those 
who have vanished from my mortal vision, and whose 
memories I hug closely in my heart, lest the covetous 
years shall rob me of them. I shall not walk on terra 
firma for a few days — I can only tread the air after 
reading such a book. The interest of such a book will 
only increase with time. And through it a loftier 
ideal of intellectual and literary life will be uplifted. 
You have written with such sympathy and comprehen- 
sion that whoever had not before heard of these Boston 
men and women, will fully understand them. And 
with such warmth of enthusiasm and resplendence of 
imagination that he who reads will catch a spark of 
their fire. 

It has given me much pleasure, as I have read, to 
feel that I have known personally, or through friends, 

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almost every individual of whom you have written. 
I have lived a long time in the world; I shall be eighty- 
two next Friday, — and excepting our life in Chicago, 
we have dwelt in Boston or its suburbs. What a 
blessing it has been. What anticipations I revel in, 
as I remember how many have crossed the great 
"Divide," between this life and that Beyond, where 
I shall soon meet them, greatened and glorified. My 
husband has already met many of them, I know, and, 
as in days of yore, will take me to whatever lie has 
found that is new and interesting. . . . What a world 
of interest Mrs. Whipple has added to your book, 
pouring out to you her reminiscences, and giving you 
the privilege of having fac similes of so many interesting 
letters and manuscripts. They add so much of value 
that could not be obtained elsewhere. . . . 

"I went hop, skip, and jump through what you 
wrote of me, my Lilian. Oh, if I could only be and 
live what you say I am and do ! One cannot live even 
to the poor height of one's own ideal, and I feel like 
hiding in the dust when you write so beautifully about 
me. You must lower your tone, dear child, or I shall 
feel like the hypocrite that I am not. . . . 

Regarding a volume entitled "The World Beautiful 
in Books," in which I had given myself the pleasure 
of bringing together many exquisite things from the 
poets and from other writers, Mrs. Livermore wrote: 

This latest book of yours is enchanting! You know 
all authors, and with exquisite discrimination, select 
their best. I have never enjoyed one of your books 
more. I went through it without a pause, as one at 
sunset would walk through a garden of roses and 
lilies, when the air was filtered through gold and 
perfume. Now I shall make a slower journey through 
it, discovering delights that I did not at first pause to 
consider. ... 

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Again (under date of December 4, 1899) Mrs. 
Livermore wrote: — 

I have read your Biography of Kate Field with 
intense interest. It held me with irresistible fascina- 
tion from the first to the last page. Whether the 
spell was in the charm of the writer, or the subject, I 
cannot tell — perhaps it was both combined. I shall 
read it again after a week or two. Only one other 
book of biography has so enthralled me. That was 
the "biography of Margaret Fuller," collaborated by 
Emerson, Greeley, William E. Channing, and James 
Freeman Clarke. After forty years and more that 
book still rivets my attention, and takes me back 
into a past from which I date a new birth. In five 
minutes the present fades away, the dead past takes 
on fresh life, and I glow with interest in the mighty 
thinkers and writers of that time. Margaret Fuller 
was like Kate Field, a woman of "spiritual energy," 
and she projected an influence that was felt through 
the latter half of the century. Something in Kate 
Field, and passages of her life history, remind me of 
Margaret Fuller, and yet they were most unlike. 
Both were, to quote from Goethe, extraordinary and 
"generous seeking," — both lived up to Goethe's 
words, — "Do today the nearest duty." 

After the death of her husband, Mrs. Livermore 
thus wrote in one letter: 

Among the last words of Mr. Livermore was his 
wish that I should go on just as I had been living. 
"Don't give up any work you are engaged in," he 
urged; "only try not to overdo." I have great need 
of work now. It is to me more than money, food, 
raiment, even sympathy. I must live worthily. I 
cannot let myself now, at the close of my life, be 
overborne by sorrow, depression, or loneliness. 

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Nor did she. ' There is no more beautiful chapter 
in the history of human life than that of the last 
years on earth of Mary A. Livermore. Her intel- 
lectual power seemed only deeper and clearer; her 
health was fairly good; and she continued to make her 
great addresses. When more than eighty she stood 
on the platform of Tremont Temple, speaking to an 
audience limited only by the size of that vast audi- 
torium, with every word distinctly audible in every 
part of the hall. "You say I am on the downward 
slope?" she said in this address, whose theme was 
Immortality. "Not so; my face is toward the sun- 

• 55 

rise. 

These last years were given entirely to ministrations 
to those in need. Her correspondence was an enormous 
one. Problems of personal life of all kinds were laid 
before her for counsel. To each she spoke the word 
that seemed best and most helpful. Instead of mak- 
ing the period after the loss of her husband one of 
gloom and seclusion, she made it a period of the most 
active and sympathetic aid to all who sought her 
counsel. In this divine order of living she found the 
peace that passeth understanding. 

An interesting correspondence with Doctor Hiram 
Corson was initiated during one of those enjoyable 
winters in Washington by a letter from him asking 
if Mrs. Browning's poem, "My Kate," was written 
to Kate Field. As a matter of fact it was not. Some 
remark led to references to letters, and alluding to 
correspondence Professor Corson wrote: 

.... I have enough for a volume from Horace 
Howard Furness, James Hallowell Phillips, Doctor 

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Furnivall, Mary Cowden Clarke (her letters ranging 
over twenty years), William Watson, Edward Dowden 
(and the original Manuscript of the "Prince's Quest"), 
Walt Whitman, Henry W. Longfellow (although his 
were to Mrs. Corson when she was engaged in translat- 
ing his "Hyperion"), Oliver Wendell Holmes (one, 
only, from him), Edward Everett, Hawthorne, Charles 
C. Jewett (was he not the first Librarian of your 
Boston Public Library?), Joseph Henry of the Smith- 
sonian, Charlotte Cushman, Edwin Booth (a very 
interesting letter on my jottings on "Hamlet"); 
Robert Browning, Reverend Canon Benham of Canter- 
bury, Goldwin Smith, Mr. Haweis of London, and 
these are but a small number out of all. . . .1 sent 
you yesterday a copy of my little book, "The Voice 
and Spiritual Education." It is a companion to my 
"Aims of Literary Study." These two books will 
give you my attitude toward literary study. . . . 
Poetry, and all literature strictly so called, is spir- 
itualized thought — and it is the spiritualization of 
the thought which makes literature, literature. The 
thought is the articulation, so to speak, of a poem — 
mere thought is not regarded as literature, in the 
strictest sense of the word. Literature is made too 
much a mere knowledge subject in our schools and 
classes. A poem is a poem, no matter where, when, 
or by whom written. A poem to be truly a poem 
must embody a bit of the eternal, that which is inde- 
pendent of time and place. 

In a reference to Browning Dr. Corson noted the 
poet's doctrine of the sub-self as the source of man's 
highest spiritual knowledge, a doctrine fully expressed 
in "Paracelsus." 

Of Poe, Doctor Corson thus writes: 

... In your delightful little volume, "The World 
Beautiful in Books," you say; "Edgar Allan Poe is 

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THE GOLDEN ROAD 

read, at least as to his poetry, by all who lay claim to 
the love of literature." And Lord Tennyson said; 
"I think that Edgar Allan Poe is (taking his poetry 
and his prose together) the most original American 
genius." . . . What makes Tennyson's "In Memoriam" 
a true poem, the theme of which is a great, and, at 
first, an overpowering, personal bereavement. It is 
because it exhibits the evolution of a sanctified will. 
The last numbered section (CXXXI) is an apostrophe 
to the Will. 

O living will that shall endure; 

Poetry is an expression of the Life Eternal in man; 
an expression of the resurrected spirit. "I am the 
resurrection and the life," said Jesus; that is I resur- 
rect the buried life in man. That should be the func- 
tion of poetry. 

Now "The Raven" and "Ulalume" are the poetry 
of despair; a phrase which is self -contradictory. 
There is no assertion of the spirit in these composi- 
tions. And spirit and joy are inseparable; rather, 
indeed, they are identical. 

Both are wonderful reading compositions, and have 
always been great favorites with elocutionists, especially 
those who are Vox et prceterea nihil. 

In a conversation I once had with Robert Browning 
on American poetry, he remarked, "You have but 
one poet who has a burden to deliver." He meant 
Walt Whitman! 

Under another date Professor Corson wrote: 

Some time ago, I met with your "The Spiritual 
Significance," at the house of a friend, and was so 
much pleased with it that I have since ordered all 
your books. The more or less informing theme of 
them all, the life of the Spirit, has had the main interest 
for me, — an interest which has been the dominant 
one with me for many years. . . . 

[295] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

Of William Sharp's life of Browning Professor 
Corson says: 

I'm surprised at your liking Sharp's life at all. 
What he says of "The Ring and the Book" killed him 
as a critic for me. Do you realize that he called that 
poem "the most magnificent failure in our literature"? 
. . . Sharp misses the whole drift of "The Ring and 
the Book." 

One smiles to realize that to this critical and aged 
scholar no failure in mind, manner, or morals, could 
be quite so much of an iniquity in his eyes as a failure 
of what he would accept as true criticism! He pro- 
ceeds with a vigorous castigation of Mr. Sharp through 
eight large pages, and closes with these lines : 

The Pope is the fullest realization in Browning's 
poetry of his idea of a personality — one in whom 
the absolute man is in the ascendent, and to whom the 
Eternal Word speaks, and who is thus freed from 
mere opinions determined more or less by temporal 
standards and circumstances. Sed Tkbg hactenus. Mr. 
Sharp is not constituted ever to know "The Ring 
and the Book"! 

Yes, I have received Emily Dickinson's poems, and 
thank you very much for them. But I have not yet 
discovered wherein their merit consists. I shall read 
them all thoroughly and will then give you my im- 
pressions of them. 

Which, indeed, he proceeded to do with a vigorous 
disapproval (to put it mildly) which left little to the 
imagination. The aged and critical scholar knew 
very well what he liked; nor was he ever at any loss 
to express his sentiments over the things he did not 
like! 

[296] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

Of Matthew Arnold I find this mention: 

Arnold attached importance to ideas independently 
of their realization and of their relation to the spirit. 
His spiritual nature does not sufficiently co-operate 
with them. They are mere ideas. One seldom gets 
the impression, in reading his poetry, that his ideas 
were first heart-felt, before they were taken up by 
the formative intellect. They are intellectually bred. 
He is dominated by ideas — ideas which do not arouse 
the spirit, and, consequently, they are not sufficiently 
quickened to be impressive. 

He shows the Oxford reserve. 

Again Doctor Corson writes: 

... I feel highly honored by your dedication to 
me of your "From Dream to Vision of Life," but I 
am abashed by the over-estimation of myself which it 
exhibits. Even Mr. Browning, "whose profound 
insight into spiritual mysteries has [indeed] exalted 
all literature," wrote that he felt my estimate of him 
"a load to sink a navy!" 

Of Doctor Hodell's remarkable work in his trans- 
lation of "The Old Yellow Book," and his incom- 
parably fine Essay on this old Italian document, 
Doctor Corson writes: 

One object I had in going to Baltimore was to look 
over the work by Dr. Hodell, the Professor of English 
Literature in the Woman's College (he was formerly 
my Fellow in E. L.) on "The Old Yellow Book" 
which gave occasion to the composition of Browning's 
"The Ring and the Book." 

Under another date Doctor Corson writes: 

And you go again to Italy. I hope your stay will 
result in another charming book! What a delightful 

[£97] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

circumambient life you lead, along with your remark- 
able literary productiveness! I am awaiting, with 
pleasant expectation, your biography of Mrs. Louise 
Chandler Moulton. You will, I'm sure, portray her 
charming character and her interesting outer life, in 
your usual sympathetic way. 

In reply to something written to him from Italy 

he says: 

... I am sorry I never visited the places you 
write of when I was vigorous enough to endure such 
travel. I am too old, now, and shall go no more — 

. . .to lands of summer beside the sea." 

I must obey literally the teaching of St. Augustine. 
" Noli for as ire, in te cedi. In interior e homine habitat 
Veritas; et si animam mutabilem inveneris, transcende ie 
ipsum." 

When the biography of Browning by Professor 
Griffin (completed after his death by Mr. Minchin) 
appeared, Doctor Corson alluded to it as follows: 

This life of Browning does not cover any of the 
ground of your book; it has a different purpose, — 
a purpose which I don't particularly care about, 
though good enough in its way. 

As a matter of fact, for myself, I cared very greatly 
about this exceedingly interesting biography, which 
fills an unique place, although not comparable in 
importance to that introspective biography by Pro- 
fessor Edward Dowden. 

During a sojourn in Oxford Doctor Corson met 
William Watson, then in his early youth, and was 

[298] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

impressed by his poetic promise. Later of Mr. 
Watson (now Sir William) lie writes: 

I had thought William Watson to be the greatest 
poetic genius in England since the death of Lord 
Tennyson. My walk with him across the moors from 
Ilkley, in Yorkshire, to the home of Charlotte Bronte, 
in 1877, is one of my pleasantest memories. He was 
then only in his 19th year, and had not published, nor 
written, to my knowledge, any poetry. But I wrote 
to my wife that I had met a young man who ap- 
peared to unite in himself the poetic spirits of both 
Shelley and Keats, and that he might, some day, be 
the poet laureate of England! He was Gladstone's 
choice after the death of Tennyson. Of Watson's 
"Lachrymae Musarum" Gladstone told Queen Victoria 
he thought it greater than Tennyson's "Ode on the 
death of the Duke of Wellington." 

I met him last at the Shelley Centenary, at Hor- 
sham, in 1892. His Shelley Ode, written for that 
occasion, is one of his greatest poems, and is a 
noble characterization of Shelley's aspiring spirit. His 
"Wordsworth's Grave" is a truly great poem. . . . 
Strange to say, Watson is a greater admirer of the 
poems of Matthew Arnold, than of Browning: he 
thinks, with Tennyson, who, in the Memoir by his 
son, is represented as saying "Browning never greatly 
cares about the glory of words or beauty of form; . . . 
He has plenty of music in him, but he cannot get it 
out." ! ! ! ! 

I would say that whenever and wherever the musical 
is demanded as an inseparable part of the poetical 
expression, he is always equal to the demand. 

A few days later the Professor writes: 

I received, this morning, the New York Times — 
"Saturday Review of Books," containing your letter 

[299] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

in which you quote what I wrote you, in my last, 
about William Watson. 

I am pleased that you gave the quotation. 

Somewhat later Doctor Corson wrote: 

Two or three days ago I learned from one of our 
professors that you are in Rome. He had received a 
letter from a friend in Rome who informed him that 
he had recently dined with you, and that you had 
spoken of me. I wrote to Little, Brown and Com- 
pany for your address, which, they informed me, was 
care of Sebasti and Reali, Piazza di Spagna, Rome, 
and that they understood you intend remaining abroad 
until Spring. 

What an interesting life you lead! Your delightful 
books follow each other in rapid succession, you see 
much that is grandest in Nature, on both sides of the 
Ocean, and much that is noblest in the works of man! 
I yesterday reread your "From Dream to Vision of 
Life" and felt that it is one of your most inspiring 
books, — inspiring in the direction of the life of the 
spirit. I wish the little book could be read by thou- 
sands and tens of thousands — especially Church 
people ! 

The aim of a religious education should be the life 
of the spirit, unconditioned by creeds and formulas. 
The Church of the future will be, I opine, one spiritu- 
ally, and multiform, intellectually. Sed hcec hactenus. 

Thus the letters of Professor Corson ran on through 
many years, with his rich thought, his critical insight 
into literary values, his accomplished scholarship. 
They were, indeed, a liberal education to any recipient, 
and they ended only with his death, in the June of 
1911, in his home, Cascadilla Cottage, in Ithaca, a 
veritable treasure-house of literature. The staircase 

[300] 



THE GOLDEN ROAD 

was lined with his Chaucer library, — a rare collection, 
bequeathed to Cornell University. To Poetry and 
indeed to the the entire range of belles lettres, Professor 
Corson rendered a similar service in our country to 
that of Matthew Arnold in England with whom he 
fully agreed that more and more will mankind dis- 
cover "that we have to turn to Poetry to interpret 
life for us, to console us, to sustain us." To this 
high calling was dedicated the life of Hiram Corson. 

May we not think of the Golden Road as the via 
sacra of life? Not a path removed from the sorrows 
and the mistakes, the errors and the failures that 
pervade our universal experience; but rather as a 
certain attitude of spirit that may enable one, even 
in the midst of losses and crosses, to live by energy 
and hope; by faith that the way of life is "all the way 
by which the Lord, thy God, hath led thee"? Tc 
realize that personal happiness is not conditioned by 
possessions; that it results from the joy of work, 
the sympathetic sharing of the noble aspirations 
of our common humanity, the blessing of the priceless 
companionships of the friends and helpers we en- 
counter on this Golden Road; that it includes the 
endeavor to cooperate, however feebly, with the Divine 
Purposes in the increasing spiritual evolution of 
mankind, — and that this attitude of spirit may 
always keep life renewed and radiant and polarized 
to the unremitting effort to be true to the Heavenly 
Vision. 



[301] 



INDEX 



Academie de Goncourt, 194. 
Academy, the French, 194. 
"Across Unknown South America," 

129. 
Adams, Hon. and Mrs. Alva, 249. 
Adams, Samuel, statue by Anne 

Whitney, 75. 
Adams, Sarah Holland, 71; letters 

to author, 71, 72. 
"Adventure Beautiful, The," 15. 
"After Her Death," 33. 
Ahmed Bey, Palace of, 176. 
Alcott, Amos Bronson, 11, 13, 14, 

18; lectures of, 35; bust of, 36. 
Alcott, Louisa M., 38, 258. 
Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 27; quoted, 

275. 
Aldunate, Chilian Minister, and 

Madame, 154. 
Alexander, Francesca, 111; meeting 

with, 112; appearance of, 112. 
Alexander, Francis, 111. 
Alexander, Mrs. Francis, work of, 

113. 
Algonquin Park, 263. 
Algiers, 170, 171, 172; beauty of, 

172, 173, 175; water-front of,' 

178, 179. 
Ali Bey, Prince, 174. 
All Souls Church, Boston, 282. 
American Chamber of Commerce in 

Paris, the, 198. 
Ames, Alice, see Winter. 



Ames, Rev. Charles Gordon, 72; 

letters to author, 73, 74; personal 

expression of, 74. 
Anaxagoras, mask of, 36. 
Andrew, John A., statue by Ball, 

113. 
Angeli, Diego, 144. 
Annunzio, Gabriele d', 119. 
Anthony, A. V. S., 33. 
Antuni, Principe d', 151; Prin- 

cipessa d', 251; narration by, 

152, 154. 
Appian Way, the, 132. 
Architectural League, the, 76. 
Arizona, Grand Canyon in, 176. 
Arnold, Matthew, monograph on 

Emerson, 5; quoted, 301. 
Art Institute of Chicago, the, 77. 
"Art of Fiction, The," 39. 
"Asolando," dedication of, 101. 
Assisi, view of, 136. 
"Athens, the Violet-Crowned," 169; 

242. 
"Atlantic Monthly, The," 27. 
"Au Bord de la Mer," painting by 

Raphael Collin, 193. 
Augustus Caesar, statue in the 

Palazzo Senni, 150. 

Ball, Thomas, 111, 112; letter to 
the author, 113; visit to, 113, 114. 

Balzac, Honore de, statue by Rodin, 
184, 185. 



[303] 



INDEX 



Barlow, Jane, 208; letters to the 

author, 209-214. 
Barriere, M., French Ambassador 

and Mme., 154. 
Baths of Caracalla, the, 147. 
Baudelaire, Charles, 19. 
"Beggars," painting by Charles 

Walter Stetson, 144. 
Behmen, Jakob, 36. 
Behrens, Helen L., 62. 
Bell, Alexander Graham, 286. 
Bell, George Turnbull, 246. 
Bennett, Emma Roxolo (Mrs. Har- 
rison Bennett), art of, 75, 76. 
Benson, Monsignor Robert Hugh, 

personality of, 137; lecture by, 

137; Roman life of, 138, 139. 
Bernhardt, Mme. Sarah, 26. 
Bertram, Mrs. Susan, 33, 34. 
Besant, Annie, lecture of, in Villa 

Paget, 118. 
Besant, Walter, 39. 
Besnard, Albert Paul, Director of 

the French Academy in Rome, 

153; art of, 154. 
Besnard, Mme., fete given by, 154. 
Biagi, Guido, 123. 
Bibliotheque Nationale, 195. 
Biskra, 175; 176; sunsets of, 177, 

178. 
Bjerregaard, Carl Henrik Andreas, 

22. 
Blackwell, Alice Stone, 52. 
Blagden, Isa, 105; grave of, 106. 
Blake, Mary Elizabeth (Mrs. John 

G.), 77, 78. 
Block, Louis James, poetry of, 7. 
Blow, Susan Elizabeth, greatness of, 

15; lectures of, 16. 
"Blue Grotto of Capri," the, 188. 
Bonheur, Rosa, visit to, 186, 187; 



art of, 187, 188; Anna Klumpke's 
life of, 189. 

Bonnat, Leon, 190, 191. 

Boston, clergy of, 26; lecturers of, 
26. 

Boston Common, 24. 

"Boston Days," 231, 242, 290. 

Boston Public Library, the, 34, 35, 
279. 

Botta, Anne Lynch (Mrs. Vincenzo), 
reception for the Storys, 83; per- 
sonality of, 83. 

Bourget, Paul, 19. 

Brackett, Anna, 6. 

"Bread- Winners, The," 278. 

Bridges, Robert, 210. 

Bright Angel, Arizona, 250. 

Bright Angel Trail, 250. 

Brindisi, adventure in, 169. 

British Museum, the, 277. 

Brockmeyer, Henry, 12, 13, 14. 

Bronson, Katherine (Mrs. Arthur), 
99; visit to, 99, 100; famous casa 
of, 100; Browning's words to, 101 ; 
Browning palace opened to the 
author by, 99, 101, 102, 103. 

Brooks, Rt. Rev. Phillips, 26; ser- 
mons of, 43; influence of, 53, 54; 
boyhood life of, 55; literary in- 
terests of, 55, 56; characteristics 
of, 57, 220, 282. 

Brown University, 12. 

Browning Club, the, 69. 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 102; 
memorial shrine to, 103; tomb 
of, 106; 108, 109; jewel-case of, 
presented to the author, 228, 293. 

Browning, Fannie (Mrs. Robert 
Barrett Browning, nee Codding- 
ton), 101; the poet's attachment 
to, 102. 



[304] 



INDEX 



Browning, Oscar, 119; conversa- 
tion of, 119, 122. 

Browning, Robert, 19; words of to 
Mrs. Bronson, 101; death of, 101; 
photograph after death, 101; poem 
of, read to Fannie, 102; busts 
and portraits of, 101, 102, 103, 
109; album of, 229, 230; his 
doctrine, expressed in "Paracel- 
sus," 294. 

Browning, Robert Barrett, the 
Palazzo Rezzonico purchased by, 
101, 103; visit to, 110; romanti- 
cism of, 120, 121; aid of to the 
author in "The Brownings," 129, 
130. 

Browning, Sarianna, 101. 

Brownings, the, 34, 84. 

Brunton, Rev. William, sonnet of, 
87, 88. 

Buckle, Henry Thomas, 19. 

Buddhas in the collection of Raphael 
Collin, 194. 

Bull, Mrs. Ole, 67. 

Callender, Frank Walter, 241. 
Calve, Emma, portrait by Constant, 

191, 192. 
Canada, extended trip through, 256. 
"Canada the Spellbinder," 246, 272. 
Canadian Women's Press Club, the, 

266. 
Capitol at Washington, the terraces 

of, 275. 
Carlyle, Thomas, 11, 19. 
Carpenter, Professor Estlin, 247. 
Carr, Cornelia, nee Crow, 2. 
Carriere, Eugene, 190, 193, 194. 
Carthage, 178. 
Casa Alvisi, 99. 
Casa Guidi, 103, 109. 



Casbah, the, in Algiers, 171. 

Castel Gondolpho, 140. 

Castel San Angelo, 3, 131. 

"Castilian Days," 278. 

Castor and Pollux, statues of, in 

Rome, 140. 
Cavell, Mount Edith, 268; lake, 268. 
Cellini, Benvenuto, 117. 
Cenci, Beatrice, statue by Harriet 

Hosmer, 1, 3; Shelley's tragedy 

of, 3, 131, 132. 
"Century Magazine, The," 278. 
"Chambered Nautilus, The," 27. 
Champs Elysees, the, 182; 200. 
Channing, Grace Ellery, see Stetson. 
Charlton, Henry Ready, 260. 
Chateau Laurier, 261. 
Chavannes, Puvis de, 193. 
Chicago Exposition of 1893, the, 67. 
Church of the Disciples, Boston, 73. 
Ciocca, Signora, n6e Langley, 140. 
Claflin, Governor and Mrs., 26, 51, 

52, 74. 
Clairin, Jules Victor Georges, 190. 
Clarke, Rev. James Freeman, 26, 

49, 72. 
Clarke, James W., 29, 30. , 
Clough, Arthur Hugh, 106. 
Cobalt, silver mines of, 264. 
Coddington, Fannie, see Browning. 
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 19. 
Colley, Archdeacon, 221. 
Collin, Raphael, 193, 194. 
Collins, Mabel, 221. 
Colorado, development of, 249. 
Concord School of Philosophy, the, 

35. 
Congress of Religions at the Chicago 

Exposition, 66. 
Congressional Library, the, 276. 
Constant, Benjamin, 191, 192. 



[305] 



INDEX 



Constantine, Algeria, 175, 176. 

Constantine, King of Greece, 160. 

Coonley, see Ward. 

Copp's Hill, 28. 

Corinth, Gulf of, 167. 

Corson, Hiram, 224; letters to the 
author, 293-300. 

Crawford, Francis Marion, 149. 

Cretan Assembly, the, 158. 

Cross, John Walter, 120. 

Crow, Cornelia, see Carr. 

Crow, Emma, see Cushman. 

Crow, Mary, see Emmons. 

Crow, Wayman, benefactions of, 
1, 2; Harriet Hosmer's bust of, 
14; great personality of, 15. 

Curtis, George William, 17. 

Cushman, Charlotte, 2. 

Cushman, Edwin, 2. 

Cushman, Mrs. Edwin, nie Crow, 2. 

Dagnan-Bouveret, Pascal Adolphe 

Jean, 190. 
Dallin, Cyrus Edwin, 26. 
Damrosch, Walter, 72. 
Dante, 16, J8, 123, 167. 
Daudet, Alphonse, 195. 
Daudet, Edmee, 195. 
Davidson, Thomas, 6, 35, 59. 
Dawson, Sir William, 59. 
Demont, Adrien Louis, 190, 192, 193. 
"Der Arme Heinrich," 9. 
Diaz, Abby Morton, 26, 49. 
Dickens, Charles, 39. 
"Digressions of V., The," 134. 
"Divina Commedia," 183. 
Dodd, Mrs. Anna Bowman, 83. 
Donald, Rev. E. Winchester, 57, 58, 

285. 
"Dorothy Q.," 45. 
Dowden, Edward, 122, 129, 298. 



Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan, 256. 
Doyle, Lady, 256. 
Drummond, Henry, 59. 
Dudevant, Amantine Aurore Dupin; 

pseud. George Sand, 19. 
Duran, Carolus, 153. 
Duschennes, Monsignor, 155. 

"Echoes From the Past," 231. 

Edward VII., 190. 

"Eighty, The," 93. 

Elba, 274. 

Eliot, George, 13, 19; realism of, 40; 
Oscar Browning on, 120; de- 
scribed, 121; romance of, 121; 
Dr. Dowden's estimate of, 122. 

Ellicott, Rt. Rev. Charles John, 150. 

Ellicott, Constantia (Mrs. Charles 
John), 150; letters to the author, 
205-208. 

Ellicott, Rosamond, 151. 

Elliot, Maud Howe 149. 

"Elsie Venner," 44. 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo, Arnold on, 
5; Hegel characterized by, 14, 18; 
bust of, 36; quoted, 40, 72, 79. 

Emmons, Elise, 15; Roman days 
with, 153, 155, 220. 

Emmons, Mary (Mrs. Robert, nie 
Crow), dedication of book to, 15. 

Emmons, Robert, 15. 

Enneking, John J., 26. 

Etna, Mount, 274. 

"Eyes and Ears in London," 33. 

"Fates, The," of Michelangelo, 8. 
Faubourg Saint-Germain, the, 5. 
"Faust," of Goethe, 8. 
Fawcett, Edgar, 83; letters to the 

author, 215-219, 220. 
Fenollosa, Ernest Francisco, 26. 



[306] 



INDEX 



Ferdinando de' Medici, statue of, 

106. 
Field, Kate, 17; first meeting with, 

33; social life of, 83, 85; death 

of, 90; biography of, 292, 293. 
Fields, Annie (Mrs. James T., ne'e 

Adams), 26, 70, 124. 
Fiesole, 130. 
Fiske, John, 50. 
Fiske, Professor Willard, 127; Dante 

and Petrarca collection of, 127. 
Flagstaff, Arizona, 249, 253. 
Florence, 114, 128. 
"Florence of Landor, The," 128. 
Flournoy, Theodore, William James, 

characterized by, 60. 
Foster, Gen. John W., 280. 
"Fragments from Old Letters," 232. 
Franco-American Commission, 197. 
Frederick, Empress, 116, 150, 266. 
Freeman, Edward A., 59. 
French, Daniel Chester, 113. 
Frenfanelli-Cybo, Contessa Maria, 

149. 
"From Dreamland Sent," 88. 
"From Dream to Vision of Life," 

244. 
Fry, John Hemming, classic art of, 7. 
Fuller, Margaret, see Ossoli. 



Goncourt, Edmond de, 194; Aca- 

demie de Goncourt, 195. 
Gordon, Rev. George A., 79. 
Grand Canyon, the, 249, 250, 251, 

262. 
Grand Trunk Railway System, the, 

246, 256, 260. 
Greece, tragic poets of, 19; future 

of, 161. 
"Greta Lodge," 232. 
Griffin, William Hall, 298. 
Grimm, Hermann, 70. 
Gritti, Andrea, Doge of Venice, 

palace of, 96. 
Grote, George, 19. 
"Guardian Angel, The," 44. 
Guiney, Louise Imogen, 71, 77, 85. 
Guizot, Francois Pierre Guillaume, 

19. 
"Gul Buba," 91. 
Gutherz, Carl, 7. 

Halderman, Annie, 221. 

Hale, Rev. Edward Everett, 26; 
living influence of, 46; letter to 
the author, 46, 47; interprets 
Emerson, 47; Mrs. Livermore on, 
48; Dr. Ames on, 73, 220; chap- 
Iain of the United States Senate, 



Gadski, Mme. Johanna, 72. 
Gandara, Antonio de la, 190. 
"Gate of the Desert, The," 176. 
Geffroy, Gustave, 195. 
George, Henry, 266. 
Ghiberti Gates, the, 183. 
Ghika, Helena, see Massasski. 
Gibbon, Edward, 19. 
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 8, 
Golden Gate, the, 257, 270. 
"Golden Legend, The," 9. 



Hale, Lucretia, 82. 
Hale, Susan, 82, 83. 
Hall of the Cancelleria, 137. 
Halstead, Murat, 21, 23. 
Hampel, Professor, 94. 
Hampel, Mme., nee Pulszky, ro- 
mantic meeting with, 94, 95. 
"Happy Warrior, The," 233. 
18. Harris, Edith, 282. 

Harris, William Torrey, 6; journal 
founded by, 7; personal qualities 

[307] 



INDEX 



of, 10, 18; Hegelian lectures of, 

35, 38, 159; last years of, 282, 

283; tribute to, 283, 284. 
Hartmann von Aue, 9. 
Harvard University, 44. 
Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 36, 37. 
Hawthorne, Rose, see Lathrop. 
Hay, John, 196, 277; letter to the 

author, 278. 
Hays, Charles Melville, 260. 
"He and She; A Poet's Portfolio," 

85. 
Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 7, 

11; Emerson's remark on, 14, 18. 
Hellenic Chamber, the, 159. 
Hemenway, Mrs. Mary, 50. 
Hennique, Leon, 195. 
"Herald," The New York, 166. 
Hichens, Robert, 135, 177. 
Higginson, Thomas Wentworth, 26, 

49; "Round Table" founded by, 

69, 224. 
Hill, David Jayne, 279; diplomatic 

career of, 280, 281. 
Hill, Juliet (Mrs. David Jayne), 

social charm of, 279, 280. 
Hillside Chapel, the, 37. 
Hinkson, Katherine, nSe Tynan, 77. 
"His Angel to His Mother," 77. 
"History of Civilization," 9. 
"History of Diplomacy, A," 280. 
Hoare, Mrs. Beatrice, 150, 151, 206, 

207. 
Hodell, Charles, 297. 
Holland, Rev. Robert A., 19. 
Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 27; charac- 
terization of, 43, 44; letter to the 

author, 45. 
Homer, EzekiePs sculpture of, 148. 
Hosmer, Harriet, statue of Beatrice 

Cenci, 1; art life of, 2; tribute 



of to Mr. Crow, 14, 67, 75; play 

written by, 143, 258. 
H6tel de Ville, 154. 
Howe, Mrs. Julia, nee Ward, 26; 

lectures of, 35, 51, 124, 258. 
Howells, William Dean, 27, 29; wit 

of, 36, 39, 79, 165. 
Hoxie, Vinnie (Mrs. Richard, nSe 

Ream), charm of, 287. 
Hugo, Victor, 19; Rodin's statue of, 

186. 
Hungary, Millennial of, 90; artists 

of, 91. 
Hunt, Helen, see Jackson. 
Hutchinson, Anne, 64. 
Huxley, Thomas Henry, 17. 
Huysmans, Paul, 195. 

Inferno of Dante, the, 167. 

Ingram, Arthur Foley Winning- 
ton-, Bishop of London, 224. 

"Inter-Ocean," The Chicago, 60. 

Irving, Sir Henry, 26. 

Istria, Dora d', pseud., see Mas- 
sassky. 

"Italy, the Magic Land," 128. 

Ives, Halsey C, 7. 

Jackson, Helen Hunt, 85. 

James, Henry, novel defined by, 39, 

109, 141, 142, 165. 
"James Russell Lowell and his 

Friends," 48. 
James, William, 59, 78. 
"Janey Canuck," pseud., see 

Murphy. 
Jasper Park, 267, 268. 
Jewett, Sarah Orne, 71. 
Jourdain, Madame, portrait by 

Albert Besnard, 154. 
"Journal de Goncourt," 195. 



[308] 



INDEX 



"Journal of Speculative Philosophy, 

The," 7, 9. 
Jowett, Dr. Benjamin, 122, 247. 
Jupiter Capitolinus, statue of, 139. 

Kalogeropoulos, Panagiates, 156, 
161. 

Kant, Immanuel, 7, 18. 

Kastromenes, Sophia, see Schlie- 
mann. 

Kerbrech, la Baronne Faverot de, 
126. 

Kidner, Rev. Reuben, 285. 

King, Anna, nSe Eichberg, see Lane. 

Kitson, Theo, nee Ruggles, 76. 

Klumpke, Anna, 186; Rosa Bon- 
heur's portrait by, 186; heir to 
Bonheur estate, 189; biographer 
of Rosa Bonheur, 189; war work 
of, 190. 

Knight, William Angus, 222; inti- 
mate circle of, 223, 224; friend- 
ship with Browning, 225; letters 
to the author, 226-246. 

Koran, the, 173. 

Kossuth, Louis, 92, 93; visit to 
Boston of, 95. 

Kredidja, Leila, tomb of, 173. 

"Labourage nivernais, Le," 189. 

Lago di Nemi, 140. 

Lamartine, Alphonse, 19. 

Lanciani, Commendatore della 
Corona d'ltalia, 59. 

Landor, Arnold Henry Savage, ex- 
pedition of, 129. 

Landor, Charles, 128. 

Landor, Elena, see Mancioni. 

Landor, Walter Savage, 19; letters 
to Kate Field, 34, 105; villa of, 
127; friends of, 128; birthplace 
of, 221. 



Lane, Anna (Mrs. John, nie Eich- 
berg), 75. 
Langford, Charlotte, see Wilber- 

force. 
Langley, Samuel Pierpont, 139. 
"Last Days of Shelley," 123. 
Lathrop, George Parsons, 72. 
Lathrop, Rose (Mrs. George P., ne'e 

Hawthorne), 37. 
"Leader," the Cleveland, 196. 
Leif Ericson, Anne Whitney's statue 

of, 75. 
Leighton, Frederick, drawings of for 

"Romola," 121. 
Lett, Mr. and Mrs. Robert C. W., 

271. 
Lewes, Mr. and Mrs. George Henry, 

("George Eliot"), 121. 
L'hermitte, Leon Augustin, 190. 
"Libro d' Oro, II," 113. 
"Life Transfigured," 228, 229. 
"Light on the Path," 221. 
Li Hung-Chang, 287. 
Lincoln, Abraham, words of to 

Vinnie Ream, 287. 
Lister, Donna Roma, 126, 127, 150, 

151. 
Literary Club of Washington, the, 

279. 
Livermore, Mary Ashton (Mrs. 

Daniel P., nSe Rice), 26, 43; letters 

to the author, 48, 51; friends of, 

52, 63, 64, 75, 258; letters to the 

author, 288-292; last years of, 

293. 
Locke, George H., 272. 
Lodge, Sir Oliver, 224. 
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, 

letter to the author, 9, 27. 
Loring, Charles W., 26. 
"Louis Lambert," 185. 



[309] 



INDEX 



"Louise Chandler Moulton; Poet 

and Friend," 82. 
"Louise de la Valliere," 78. 
Lovatelli, Contessa, 117. 
Lowell Institute, the, 59. 
Lowell, James Russell, at the Court 

of St. James, 27; Dr. Hale on, 

48, 79. 
Lowell, Maria (Mrs. James Russell, 

nee White), 220. 
Lowell Observatory, the, 249, 251, 

253-255. 
Lowell, Percival, 59, 71; genius of, 

248, 249, 252-254; tomb of, 255. 
Lung' Arno Guicciardini, 125. 
"Lure of London, The," 235. 
Lyceum Club, the, 197, 221. 
Lyon, Mary, 258. 

Lytton, Lord Robert ("Owen Mere- 
dith," pseud.), 96, 105. 

Macaulay, Thomas Babington, 19, 
40. 

McCosh, Rev. James, president of 
Princeton College, 35. 

McDougall, Isabel Richardson, 124; 
lyric art of, 124; Boston visit of, 
124; Paris life of, 126. 

McDougall, Rev. John Richardson, 
124; Mrs. John Richardson, 125. 

McKenzie, Rev. John Heyward, 284; 
letters to the author, 284-286. 

McKinley, William, 277. 

Maeterlinck, Maurice, 65. 

" Magic Moment, A," 81. 

Mancioni, Mme. (nee Landor), 128. 

"Man Without a Country, The," 46. 

Mann, Rev. Alexander, great Bib- 
lical interpretation of, 58; per- 
sonal power of, 59, 285. 

Marcus Aurelius, statue of, 139. 



Margherita, Queen of Italy, 224. 

Margueritte, Paul, 195. 

Marryat, Florence, 152. 

Martineau, Harriet, statue by Anne 
Whitney, 75. 

Martineau, Rev. James, 223, 224. 

Marx, Roger, 195. 

Mason, Hon. Frank Holcomb, con- 
sular service of, 196, 197, 198; 
early life of, 196; Hay's apprecia- 
tion of, 196; noble work of, 199, 
200; death of, 200. 

Mason, Jenny (Mrs. Frank Hol- 
comb, nee Burchard), charm of, 
197; hospitalities of, 197, 198; 
devoted war work of, 200; death 
of, 200. 

Massasski, Helena (Princess Kol- 
tzoff, nSe Ghika), pseud. "Dora 
dTstria," 33; the author's con- 
versation with, 34; press articles 
on, 34; photograph of, 34. 

Materna, Mme., visit to, 90, 91. 

Mather, Rev. Cotton, 28, 29; books 
and sermons of, 29; honors to, 29. 

Mather, Rev. Increase, president 
of Harvard College, 28. 

Mather, Rev. Richard, 28; author 
of first book published in America, 
29. 

Mather, Rev. Samuel, long ministry 
of, 29. 

Mather family, the author's an- 
cestral claims to, 28; tombs of, 
28; arms of, 29. 

Mazzini, Giuseppe, 160. 

Mead, Larkin G., 114. 

Medici, Marchesa Edith de', n6e 
Story, 108, 109; marriage of, 109; 
letter to the author, 111. 

Megaspelaeon, the, 167. 



[310] 



INDEX 



"Memory," 275. 

Mercantile Library in St. Louis, 1 ; 20. 

Meredith, Owen, pseud., see Lytton. 

Metella, Cecilia, tomb of, 132. 

Michelangelo, 8. 

Michelet, Athanais Mialaret, 19. 

Mill, John Stuart, 19. 

Minchin, Harry Christopher Mon- 
tague, 298. 

Minaki, 264. 

Mirbeau, Octave, 195. 

Monreale, 181. 

Montaigne, Michel Eyquem, de, 19. 

Monte Pellegrino, 179. 

Monti, Luigi, 59. 

Monvel, Maurice Boutet de, 153, 
190. 

Morley, John, 19, 202. 

Mosher, Mrs. Ange, 244. 

"Mosses from an Old Manse," 36. 

Motley, John Lothrop, 31. 

Moulton, Louise, nee Chandler, 27; 
press letters of, 41, 70, 75; names 
"From Dreamland Sent," 89; 
Mrs. Spofford on, 80, 81, 218. 

Mounet-Sully, 195. 

Mount Edith Cavell, 268. 

Mount Robson, 269. 

Mount Sorrow, 268. 

"Mount Vernon," home of Elise 
Emmons, 221. 

Mozoomdar, Protap Chunder, 59. 

"Mrs. Martin's Company," 209. 

Mulford, Rev. Elisha, 35. 

Munkacsy, Mihaly, 92. 

Murphy, Rev. Arthur, 266. 

Murphy, Emily (Mrs. Arthur), 
pseud., "Janey Canuck," 266. 

Musset, Alfred de, 19. 

Mustapha, Inferieur, 170; Superieur, 
171. 



"My Double and How He Undid 

Me," 46. 
Myers, Frederic W. H., tablet to, 

151, 211, 224. 

Napoleon, Corfu praised by, 169. 
Naval Observatory, Washington, 

282. 
Newman, Cardinal John Henry, 19, 

223. 
New York Public Library, the, 22. 
Nixon, Hon. William Penn, 42, 43. 

60. 
Northwest, the call of the, 272. 
Norton, Charles Eliot, 8, 49. 
Notre Dame Cathedral, 81. 
Novalis (quoted), 37. 
"Nymphs Drinking at the Fountain 

of Love," 141. 

"Old Yellow Book, The," 297. 
Omar Khayyam, 30, 31, 32, 136. 
O'Reilly, John Boyle, 77, 78. 
Ossoli, Marchesa Margaret d\ nSe 

Fuller, 20, 21, 258. 
"Over the Teacups," 44. 
Oxford, 5. 

Paget, Sir Augustus, 115, 116. 

Paget, Lady Walpurga, nSe Hohe- 
nembs, notable hospitalities of, 
114; early romance of, 115, 116; 
entertainments of, 117, 118. 

Paint and Clay Club, the, 9. 

Palace of the Doges, 98. 

Palais de Beaux- Arts, 201. 

Palazzo Barberini, 85. 

Palazzo Buondelmonte, 123. 

Palazzo del Drago, 151, 153. 

Palazzo Giustiniani-Recanti, 101. 

Palazzo Rezzonico, 99. 



[311] 



INDEX 



Palazzo Senni, 150. 

Palermo, 179. 

Palmer, Mrs. Potter, 66. 

Panama-Pacific Exposition, the, 257, 

270. 
Parker, Theodore, 72, 106. 
Parthenon, the, 168. 
Pascal, Blaise, 19. 
Pater, Walter, 19. 
Patti, Mme. Adelina, 32. 
Pattison, Emilia Frances (Mrs. 

Mark, nee Strong, later Lady 

Dilke), 121. 
Pattison, Mark, 121. 
Pauncefote, Lord, 287. 
Peabody, Elizabeth, 10. 
Pepys, Samuel, 50. 
"Personality of God, The," 35. 
Pestalozzi, bust of, 36. 
Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart, see Ward. 
Phillips, Stephen, 75, 211. 
Phillips, Wendell, 23, 75. 
Philosophical Club, the, 6, 13. 
Philosophy, Concord School of, 35. 
Pierce, Rev. Ulysses G. B., 282. 
Pitman, Benn, 22. 
Place de la Concorde, the, 276. 
Planetary Evolution, problem of, 

252. 
Plato, 36, 161. 
Plotinus, 36. 

Poe, Edgar Allan, 12, 294. 
"Poet at the Breakfast Table, The," 

44. 
Pont Alexandre III., 266. 
Pope Lucius EEL, 181. 
Pope Sylvestre II., 91. 
"Prayers Ancient and Modern," 241. 
"Preexistence of the Soul, The," 36. 
Prince Rupert, seaport of, 179, 260, 

261. 



Procter, Mrs. Bryan Waller, 223. 
Psychical Research, Society for, 151. 
Pulszky, Count, 95. 
Putnam, Herbert, 277, 286. 
Pythagoras, 35. 

Quincy, Josiah, 48. 

Raffaelli, Jean Frangois, 190. 

"Rainy Day, The," 27. 

Raphael, 8, 139. 

Rawnsley, Canon, 224. 

Rejane, Mme. Gabrielle, 154, 195. 

"Resurrection, La," painting by 

Enckell, 194. 
"Reverie," 102. 
"Review of the Week," in Boston 

"Traveler," the, 64. 
Rhodes, Cecil, bust of, 141. 
"Ring and the Book, The," 106. 
Ripley, Rev. Ezra, 37. 
River-God, The, 114. 
"Robert Elsmere," 63. 
Roberts, Field-Marshal Lord, 234; 

funeral ceremonial of, 234; the 

author's fines on, 234, 235. 
Robinson, Edward, 26. 
Roche, James Jeffrey, 77. 
Rodd, Sir James Rennell and Lady, 

154. 
Rodin, Auguste, personality of, 183 

home of, 184, 186; visit to, 184 

conversations with, 183, 184, 185 

gifts to the author, 185. 
"Romaunt of Margaret, The," 121. 
Rome, sightseeing in, 131. 
"Romola," 121. 
Roosevelt, Hon. Theodore, 277, 279, 

280. 
"Rose and the Ring, The," 109. 
Rosencrans, Carrie, see Vedder. 



[312] 



INDEX 



Rosny freres, 195. 

"Round Table, The," 69. 

Royal Institution, London, 89. 

Royal Society, London, 29. 

Royce, Josiah, 60; James charac- 
terized by, 79. 

Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, the, 
136. 

Rucellai, Contessa Edith, ne'e 
Bronson, 129. 

Runkle, Mrs. Lucia Gilbert, 83. 

Ruskin, John, 19. 

St. Calixtus, 131. 

St. Peter's, 117, 140. 

Sainte Beuve, Charles Augustin de, 

19. 
Salle des Sciences, Hotel del Ville, 

154. 
Salon d'Automne, the, 194. 
Sanborn, Frank Benjamin, 11, 26, 

30; appearance of, 38; work 

of, 41. 
Sand, George, pseud., see Dudevant. 
San Francesco, 130; church of, 136. 
San Francisco, 258. 
San Giovanni Laterani, church of, 

138. 
San Marco, church of, 97. 
San Silvestre, Church of, 138, 139. 
Santa Maria della Pace, church of, 

139. 
Santa Maria della Salute, church 

of, 96. 
Santa Maria Novella, church of, 

112. 
Sargent, John Singer, 191. 
Savonarola, 106; chapel of, 106. 
Scala Santa of the Vatican, the, 

277. 
"Scarlet Letter, The," 72. 



Schliemann, Agamemnon, 162, 165; 
Mme. Agamemnon, 164. 

Schliemann, Andromache, 162. 

Schliemann, Sophie (Mme. Hein- 
rich, nee Kastromenos), 161, 162. 

Scidmore, Eliza Ruhamah, 17; 280. 

Scott, Sir Walter, 282. 

Scudder, Horace P., 288. 

Sedgwick, Mrs., school for girls, 2. 

Sedgwick, Professor William T., 59. 

Serao, Mme. Matilda, 155. 

"Seraphita," 185. 

Sermonetti, Duca di, 117. 

Service, Robert, quoted, 259, 269. 

Sevigne, Mme. de, 19. 

Shakespeare, William, 18. 

Sharp, William, 296. 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 3; "The 
Cenci," 3. 

Sibyl, the Cumaean, 141; the Lib- 
yan, 141. 

Sidi Abderrahman, mosque of, 173. 

Silvestre, M., 194. 

Simmons, Ella (Mrs. Franklin, ne'e 
Slocum), 145. 

Simmons, Franklin, art life in 
Rome, 145; honors to, 145; 
notable sculptures of, 145; the 
author's lines to, 145, 146. 

Smalley, George W., 17. 

Smithsonian Institution, the, 139. 

Snider, Denton Jacques, philosophic 
work of, 6; story of Harris told 
by, 8, 10; wit of, 12, 13, 14; lec- 
tures of, 35. 

Social Science Association, The, 30. 

Social Welfare, Canada's interest in, 
272. 

Somerset, Lady Henry, 71. 

"Sonnets from the Portuguese," 82. 

Sophia, Ex-Queen of Greece, 164. 



£313] 



INDEX 



"Sordello," 261. 
Spencer, Herbert, 120. 
Sphakianaki, Demetrius, 158. 
"Spirit in Prison, A.," 135. 
"Spiritual Significance, The," 88, 

205, 210, 295. 
Spofford, Harriet, ne'e Prescott, 26; 

Howells's words on, 79, 80; letters 

to the author, 81, 82. 
"Statue and the Bust, The," 106. 
Stead, Rev. Herbert, 244. 
Stead, William T., 224. 
Stetson, Charles Walter, 142; art 

of, 144; last rites for, 144, 145. 
Stetson, Grace Ellery (Mrs. Charles 

Walter, nee Charming), 142, 143, 

144, 145. 
Stoddard, Elizabeth (Mrs. Richard, 

ne'e Barstow), invitations of, 83. 
Stoddard, Richard Henry, 83; home 

life of, 84. 
Stone, Lucy, 26. 
"Story of Ida, The," 111. 
Story, Edith, see Peruzzi de Medici. 
Story, Waldo, 141. 
Story, Mr. and Mrs. William Wet- 
more, 85, 108, 141; home of, 143. 
Stowe, Mrs. Harriet Beecher, 128. 
Sully-Prudhomme, 201. 
Swedenborg, Emmanuel, 40. 
Swinburne, Algernon Charles, 19, 

122. 



"Times-Democrat," the New Or- 
leans, 43, 60. 

"Times," the New York, 279. 

Tomasseo, 103. 

Toronto Public Library, 272. 

Torre di Mezzo, 140. 

Torre Quatre Venti, 135. 

Tower, Charlemagne, 281. 

Tower, Helen (Mrs. Charlemagne), 
social grace of, 281; characteriza- 
tion of, 281. 

Trajan's Column, 276. 

"Transcript," the Boston, 29. 

"Transfiguration, The," of Raphael, 
8. 

"Traveler," the Boston, 29. 

Tremont Temple, 293. 

Trevi, fountain of, 149. 

Trollope, Thomas Adolphus, 95, 
105; the Trollopes, 122. 

Tynan, Katherine, see Hinkson. 

Tyndall, John, 17. 

Umberto, King, 109. 
University of Alberta, the, 266. 
University of Athens, the, 157. 
University of Berlin, the, 70. 
University of Hungary, the, 94. 
University of Manitoba, the, 265. 
University of Tokio, the, 26. 



Taylor, Bayard, 168. 
Teasdale, Sara, 239. 
Tennyson, Alfred, 122. 
Thackeray, William Makepeace, 39 
Themistocles, 161. 
Thomas, Edith Matilda, 85. 
Thoreau, Henry David, 36. 
Thucydides, 161. 

[314] 



Vatican, galleries of, the, 76. 

Vedder, Anita, 133. 

Vedder, Carrie (Mrs. Elihu, nSe 
Rosencrans), 134, 135. 

Vedder, Elihu, illustrations of, for 
Rubaiyat, 31; fines of, 32; unique 
genius of, 134; literary surprise 
of, 134; artistic impressions, 136, 
144. 



INDEX 



Vedders, the Roman home of, 
described, 132. 

Venizelos, Eleutherios, great per- 
sonality of, 156; early life of, 
157, 159, 160. 

Verlaine, Paul, 193. 

Victor Emmanuel, 117. 

Victoria, Princess Royal (later 
Empress Frederick), 115, 116. 

Victoria, Queen of England, Count- 
ess Hohenembs presented to, 115; 
Sir Augustus and Lady Paget 
commanded to dine with, 116; 
autographed drawings of, 150; 
Constant's portrait of, 190. 

Villa d'Amicenza, 76. 

Villa Malta, 134. 

Villa Medici, 132. 

Villa Strohl Fern, 135. 

Villari, Pasquale, 108. 

Vivakananda, Swami, 67. 

Vladimirovna, Grand Duchess 
Helena, 161. 

Wagner, Richard, 90. 

Wallace, Alfred Russel, 59. 

Ward, Elizabeth Stuart (Mrs. 

Herbert D., nie Phelps), 52. 
Ward, Mrs. Lydia Coonley, nSe, 

Avery, 67. 
Ward, Mary (Mrs. Humphry, nie 

Arnold), 119. 
Washington Monument, the, 276. 
Watson, J. R., 68, 69. 
Watson, William, poems of, 73, 208, 

224, 299. 
Watterson, Col. Henry, 196. 
Wayland, Francis, 12. 
Webster and Parkman, tragedy, the, 

44. 
Wellesley College, 75. 



Wendell, Professor Barrett, 29, 59. 
Whipple, Charlotte (Mrs. Edwin 

Percy, nSe Hastings), social gifts 

of, 48, 49; conversation of, 51. 
Whipple, Edwin Percy, literary 

circle of, 27; critical power of, 

50, 51; lectures of, 51; Mrs. 

Livermore on, 51. 
White, Hon. Andrew Dickson, 

281. 
White, Ambassador and Mrs. 

Henry, 153; brilliant ball given 

by, 153 
White, Maria, see Lowell. 
White House, the, 279. 
White Mountains, the, 30. 
Whitman, Mrs. Sarah Helen, 12. 
Whitman, Walt, 295. 
Whitney, Anne, 49; art of, 75; con- 
versations of, 74, 75. 
Whittier, John Greenleaf, 27; re- 
ception to, 51; repartee of, 52; 

Mrs. Moulton's sonnets praised 

by, 82. 
Wilberf orce, Rev. Albert Basil Orme, 

Archdeacon of Westminster, 150; 

great sermons of, 203, 204. 
Wilberforce, Charlotte (Mrs. Basil, 

ne'e Langford), exquisite life of, 

204. 
Willard, Frances Elizabeth, 75. 
"William Wetmore Story and his 

Friends," 141. 
Windsor Castle, 115, 116. 
Winnipeg, surprises of, 265. 
Winter, Alice (Mrs. Thomas Gerald, 

ne'e Ames), 74. 
Wolskonsky, Prince, 59. 
"Women Who Have Ennobled 

Life," 257. 
Worcester, Rev. Elwood, 208. 



[315] 



Wordsworth, William, 19; 

Knight on, 247. 
"World Beautiful, The," 211. 
"World Beautiful in Books, The," 

291. 
Worthington, Roland, Boston 

Traveler founded by, 29; gives the 



INDEX 

Dr. 



author a place on staff, 29; 
generous policies of, SO. 

Yellowhead, Pass of the, 267. 

Zimmern, Helen, Florentine lectures 

of, 123; scholarship of, 124. 
Zola, fimile, 195. 



[316] 



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